i started and i knew
what i was making was hideous
but i loved it nevertheless. it was my child deserving of a mothers love no matter how flawed and wicked it was. my art was my savior and my breath and my light. i burned it and broke it and covered it in layers of black tortured paint so that nothing underneath shone through. i kept pieces that i ripped to shreds and then tossed into the fire. the words being the last to burn.
some lived under my pillow fueling my dreams and recurring in my night terrors. especially when the moon was full.
the pieces moved me forward and then pushed me violently down the mountain moments before summiting. another lesson left to learn, a gift i could only curse at the time. it felt like a twirling upside down carnival ride. and it felt like floating on a warm still ocean just the same.


The dreams are coming fast and wild as of late. 

Womb, water, hugs. 

Breathing gelatinous fluid from alien suits.


First Breaths. 


Seeing darkness in people before anyone else does. And trying to speak of it. 

Cliffs, waves and moon light. 

Removed awakening. 

Morning comes with a sense of burden and sadness. The act of letting go ebbs and flows within me. Some days I never think of it, other days it sits right below my throat heavy in my chest. 

Demanding anxiety. 

Crushing waves of self hatred. 

Wrapped up in a yellow baby blanket.

My October 





And green

Feathers and fallen leaves


And show