Poetry
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A small moment I didn’t think about until I did. I brushed my hair for the first time in a while and only noticed afterward.The brush was heavy with it — old strands of hair, pale and dark, layered over one another, climbing out of its bristles and winding around the handle like something trying…
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Inspired by the quiet tension in Sofia Isella’s work, and by the quiet predictability of certain men. You stink of lotion and stale bravado,thumb hovering like a coward over “incognito,”pretending secrecy is the same thing as innocence.It isn’t. It’s just cowardice with better lighting. You call it desire,but it’s really control with a pulse—a need…
Analog nights 