A love poem for an insect.
Making Christmas, making Christmas, it’s so fine!
One does not discover the absurd without being tempted to write a manual of happiness.
You’ve never even seen the real world.
What does it mean to be deadnamed?
A poem about being bad at love.
Recovery isn’t a straight line.
A sonnet about recurring nightmares
Mostly? “Don’t.”
It’s more than just quarantine.
But WHY would you paint that…
Introducing 3D paintings, portraits you can poke and prod.
What is essential is invisible to the eye.
Miiiiight be an idea to act like it.