I buried the key to my heart under the roots of a sycamore tree, told myself I’d never need to open that door again. Too many ghosts living rent-free in my ribcage, too many half-smiles that tasted like lies. I learned silence before I learned solace, learned how to hold myself the way no one…

The Pickaxe tear down this house. A hundred thousand new houses can be built from the transparent yellow carnelian buried beneath it, and the only way to get to that is to do the work of demolishing and then digging under the foundations. With that value in hand all the new construction will be done…

I write like the ink might ignite in my grip, like the page is a fuse and I’m tight on the tip. Like silence is violence that crawls through my skin, and each word I spit is a fight that I win. I been carved by the cold, ghostwritten in grief, my chapters got blood…

You were the hush in my riot. The moonlight that spilled like secrets on my restless skin. You, soft edges and deep gravity— a stillness I never knew I was starving for. I, wildfire and broken compass, always running toward something or from someone, but with you… I stayed. Just long enough to see myself…