This Body Isn’t Mine
This was written in a moment where I felt split from myself, watching my own skin like it belonged to someone else. It came from that place of dissociation, of being alive but not fully inhabiting what’s supposed to be mine…
From me
My art comes from the places I can’t hide. I write because feelings pile up until they spill, and I’d rather turn them into something than let them rot. Poems, songs, visuals, they’re all the same thing to me, just different ways of translating what’s in my head.
I pull from memory, from pain, from beauty I catch in small moments. A sentence overheard, a face I can’t forget, silence that feels too heavy, these are the sparks. I don’t chase perfection, I chase truth.
What you’ll find here is layered. Sometimes soft, sometimes sharp. Nostalgia pressed against chaos. Pretty words standing next to something ugly. That tension is what keeps me creating.
If my work feels familiar, if it stings a little or stays with you, then you’ve touched the reason I make it
my work
Read further into my archive: Saturn Will Return, This Body Isn’t Mine, more still to come.
Of Vintage and Roses 