Tag: expressionist

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The Illusion of Going Somewhere

I like to run. Literally, metaphorically. I like the illusion of going somewhere and the reality of going nowhere.

I’ve been running away since early adolescence. My soul can breathe with even just the idea of distance. I feel the most free. I can think and say and feel the silence. There are no expectations of me. I don’t need to be anything. Being somewhere isn’t a concern.

The emptiness fills me with potential. I wonder who else I can be. I don’t care about where I’m going or actually becoming that person. My imagination is enough. When I run, my body loosens, my spirit sings and rejoices. I notice everything. I can listen and hear.

The idea of a clean slate, reinventing myself but staying the same. I need to believe that I can get away. I need to know I’m not trapped. That I can disappear and come back on my own time, when I’m ready. Throw myself to the wind any time I like. That I am a free woman, that I belong to me. That I’m not bound to the words used to describe me, to who I was in familiar places. I am constantly changing.

I want to be unpredictable. I want people to wonder and experience irritation with me. I get off on revealing their own insecurities. I find it pleasurable to be irresponsible. I look back fondly on the times when I didn’t care about anything but what I wanted to care about. I had no obligations. There’s a freedom in not caring about approval or being understood.

Who do I think I am? She doesn’t belong here.

I want to leave them. I want curiosity more than I want to be known. I love feeling me, being the most familiar, the most connected. Being alone and in myself. Society doesn’t compliment me like solitude does.

I like to run and feel my body, to feel my power, my fight. It reminds me that I can survive if I wanted to. That I can betray myself if I wanted to. I can conquer myself if I want to. Be my own master.

Maybe I need to know that I can get away.

I’m not in a good headspace.

I allow myself to crawl my consciousness into the small spaces. Spaces filled with sorrow, fear, pain, all the bad things I’ve grown to enjoy. I can easily get trapped in there. It can become a womb.

Fuel for my creativity as I express these intense experiences. As I sob over distant family, of the confusion of a lover. I want to feel heavy, grounded. Rooted in something.

This lingering is ancestral. It lasts for as long as it needs to.

This is where I am. A space where all my unpleasant memories play. Where my wickedness shamelessly starts to show. Where I know better but don’t do better. Spaces I can replay, curl up in, and cry. For days, I’ll have crying spells. I feel heavy, like I can’t breathe.

I want to starve myself of what sustains me. I want to be a sinful person. Give up.

I don’t need to be fixed. I don’t think there’s a solution. I just need someone to be there for me through it.

I rock myself back and forth, attempting to soothe me. I’m on the verge of tears.

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Surrender to What?

Fragments from late winter 2026

I’ve never had a relationship that changed how I lived. I rarely am challenged by them. People usually bow down eagerly, voluntarily. They just prefer to witness.

I’m resistant to change how I spend my days. Following through on connections. How I spend my time. Secrecy, privacy, sharing my days. I don’t share much. I don’t commit to commitment. I don’t like to be bounded or possessed. I want to own all of me. Be in complete control.

I feel tied up, irritated, annoyed. Obligations make me feel out of control. Like my choice is being taken away. That’s why I run from certain expectations. Outside of family I don’t want people to expect things from me. I feel suffocated, manipulated, and rejected for who I am.

People tell me that I’m too private. That I tolerate too much. They say they can’t read me. They don’t know their place in my life. I’m judgemental. I see the good too much. I see something worth loving.

I don’t listen to constructive criticism or perceptions of me from people who aren’t curious of me. I intellectualize my fear of closeness. My commitment fears. I make excuses for others’ behaviors. I empathize too much. Any little thing I find wrong.

I was on my own way too early and way too long to believe long-term relationships are nourishing and safe enough to have.

I can hear how I’m perceived but I don’t care. I don’t wallow or fret. I continue to be.

Why is this the way? Why does my body crave this? Accountability, expectations, surrender. Surrender to what? A bunch of confused souls? Beings not to be trusted because they don’t trust themselves.

Y makes my body feel safe so it must be right. Right?

X says he’s going away. He says he feels like I abandoned him. He guessed I don’t care for him.

I ache. I don’t want to lose us, but I don’t want him. Well maybe here and there, not how we were.

X appeals to my shadow. I feel he wants me to beg him to stay. I won’t. His heart is broke and I can feel it. I don’t want to discard him.

He isn’t a good friend though and he tries as a lover but he isn’t reliable.

X understands my pain. He’s seen my spirit. I don’t need his company, but I want it. His adoration, his obsession. I feel like I’m real for a moment, I want to exist in that. Being somebody to somebody. Having physical comfort, sweetness.

X has me on a pedestal. He idolizes me. He knows little about me.

I’ll miss him, how he made me laugh, and wrote me poems. How he thought about me. Yearned for me, wants me. He is deceptive though and manipulative and he lies and he’s there when it’s convenient. It’s hurtful because I question if he really wanted me. I create fantasy and make believe. I get lost in it and forget what’s real.

I did not want to spend Valentines together. I did not want to keep rejecting him cause my heart isn’t in it anymore.

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I Want to Be Ugly

I feel more and more feral.

I want a different word. Unhinged.

I want to be ugly. I want to be a mess—show my ass.

Bit by bit, I’m letting loose again. Saying more. Saying less. Using my face and body to communicate.

It is noticeable.

I want them to see my wholeness. I won’t shy away.

I play with myself, my thoughts, my perceptions. I challenge. I rebel.

I believe in letting the darkness play out. Something is ready this era. I have wants. I’m human too. And I’m a generous woman.

I want to be afraid and safe.

I’ve been questioning reality and mortality. Getting nowhere close to anything that soothes and makes sense.

I am struggling to surrender to the care I feel.

I’m realizing I move similarly to my dad

In and out.

How I refuse to acknowledge that others are attached to me and that they are a person. How I’ve lost some humanness through the cracks of me.

Emotionally, I intellectualize my emotions and others’. I feel deeply, but I’m not connected to my feelings fully. I float above, observing.

Solitude protected me from rejection.

Solitude protected me from the noise of the world.

Solitude protected my journey to myself.

I ended up alone while becoming everything.
I am questioning everything about relationships.
I see what part of me must die.
A big chunk of my identity.

How pathetic. How humbling these human feelings.

I bite my tongue. Resentment fills my mouth as acid.

Behind the barricades
The grip on surrender

I found my sun
By my bedside
On a river
It didn’t take me
Where I’m going
Oh, the faces
I meet

A piece of her
Crawled from her insides
When they were all fresh and overdue
When nobody wanted her
She couldn’t keep herself

I’ve been delving into a new territory with my art.

Bit by bit, I’m letting loose again.

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February 3, 2026

When I imagine being harmlessly dominated, the first thing I feel is a sense of safety. To be controlled, to willingly relinquish control. I feel excitement and thrill to be powerless, weaker than.

My whole life I’ve had to manage, lead, be the bigger person, exercise wisdoms, discipline. I’ve had to parent my parents, friends, lovers, my son, myself.

I want to be a child but it’s all over.

A child with little to no choice, not a care, simply existing.

My childhood was severed.

I remember when I decided to place the burden upon myself. Tending to my father and his ocean of emotions. Suppressing my sadness to make room and hold his. I was in charge of how he felt, and when he was in pain it was my obligation to make him feel better.

It was an emotional rollercoaster I was born to ride, I suppose.

I was born in his boiling waters, birthed onto the old pavement painted by our bloodline.

Lost without.

I grew up and hit a point where control gave me comfort. I quickly realized I couldn’t control the world outside of me. So I hyperfixated on controlling myself.

I gave myself rules, an underdeveloped idea of structure. I studied and sorted through the labyrinth of my being.

I think this, paired with me choosing similar lovers, kept me silent. Holding their emotions. Holding, healing, tending.

I saw my dad in them all, so it was natural.

They are my shadow, opposite, docile, timid. I’m protective over them. They let me choose. They let me go and take me back.

Unfortunately, the damage is an open wound as a result of all the sacrifice.

I don’t let people hold me.

I don’t trust trust.

I don’t trust care.

All of my moves are calculated. I think it all through to make sense. I feel things out, follow each path out in my mind.

I don’t like surprises and not knowing. I need mental preparation.

I won’t let myself fall, or will I never put my guard down or go wild in the arms of another?

Only alone do I surrender.

Surrender could look like placing my heart back on my sleeve.

Maybe I’d become an emotional drunk, embrace being a femme fatale.

Maybe I won’t have any friends.

Maybe I’d detach and float away and up.

I’d be sad and heavyhearted all the time.

I’d cry. Wail. Beg.

It’s a slippery slope.

I fear I must stay tense or I’ll lose myself entirely.

Whatever that means.

If I lose myself and become other—was I even me?

My whole being is tired of being in control.

I asked him if he wanted to know about my day.

He said he did, as he was intrigued by me.

I sat silent and changed the subject.

I’m not so good at sharing me.

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She Who Lives in My Chest

my heart is selfish
and only wants me

She’s abusive,
intrusive.
She swallows me hidden.

I’m in love with her
I trust her

She forces me,
shoves truth
out from my belly
through my clenched teeth

She makes me throw up,
nice and neat.
She edges me to moonstone tears

Even I am sick of me
and my selfish heart

She allows me to fold
as she soaks into my Viking thighs

I wouldn’t still be alive
without her

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June 22 & July 8, 2026

I saw X.

It was tender, satiating for once. The first time we’ve connected that I left feeling… satisfied.

He was in tune with me. He listened to me and gave me what I wanted.

I felt his heart outside of his nervous system. I felt it on his body, tasted it on his skin, and heard it in his voice as he whispered to me.

He feels safe with me.

I spoke his love language as he laid his head on my bosom, and I caressed his head, back, and arms. I soothed him. I’m protective over him beyond myself.

I told him I cared about him and expressed other affections. I kissed his head. He’s my baby.

This time I adored him all the way.

We laughed and teased. I told him I felt safe with him. We held each other’s bodies, pressing skin against skin, rubbing our faces together, biting cheeks. He adores me.

We became yin and yang, and I loved it. Saliva and sweat—I didn’t mind.

I don’t need to know what it is anymore. I’ve worn myself out trying to understand.

I surrender.

He means something to me. What we have is genuine. It’s not some fantasy anymore. It’s real. Out of my head. Real.

I wanted to reassure him. Remind him that he’s special to me.

X is my lover, and I think I need him.

Time will continue, but I’m in a vulnerable place, and I’m no longer embarrassed to admit that I need him.

I needed him yesterday. We fell asleep on the phone.

I feel warm when he calls me his Mulberry.

We talked while I was at work, and I didn’t feel so alone in it all. I feel emotionally and spiritually safe knowing he’s here.

It’s easy to assume—or even wish—for more. Though I don’t think that’s us.

Something about X soothes me like a child checking to make sure their mother is still there, then finding out she is. The relief. The calm that follows.

Maybe I am not as strong as I thought.

This space is good.

I am chaos and loud. I am mad and an exciting time. I make safe spaces for people to exist, and they choose to exist with me.

Get to know someone long enough, and you’ll eventually see a piece of yourself in them.

I want to hold on to X.

I don’t want to let go of what we are.

I just don’t.

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The Shape of Listening

Learning how to let the image breathe. Practicing restraint, symbolism, space. Trusting simplicity more.

✶ handmade paper, sunprints, cinnamon bark, embroidery, glitter, fern clippings & cowerie shells ✶
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Emotional Hieroglyphics

My recent work explores subconscious divination through collage and material experimentation.


Using embroidery, scraps, symbolic repetition, texture, handmade paper, organic remnants, and intuitive composition, I’ve been creating what feel like emotional hieroglyphics or dream maps – artifacts of an evolving inner mythology.


The work exists somewhere between intuitive abstraction, sacred symbolism, folk mysticism, outsider assemblage, and visual poetry.


I’m interested in how subconscious memory communicates through symbols, texture, repetition, and material instinct. These pieces are less concerned with polished representation and more concerned with emotional residue, psychic mapping, and the transformation of fragments into living symbolic systems.

✶ Materials: embroidery, glitter, old scrap drawings, sunprint paper, ink, self portrait, tree seeds ✶