Personal work. Testimony, fiction, activism, devotion.
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Unfiltered thoughts. No structure, no polish, no promises. Access is by request.
⬡An Ethics Committee investigation into the Foundation's systemic failures in treating sapient anomalous entities. One entity chooses self-termination. One handler barricades himself with two sapient beings for seventy-six hours to keep them alive. The O5 Council rejects all twenty-eight reforms. The Ethics Committee resigns.
Fallen angels whose sins are indistinguishable from their virtues. Damian fell through grief — he absorbed too much suffering and refused to return to heaven. Ari fell through love — her devotion became obsessive, suffocating, absolute. Neither fell through rebellion. Both fell because they would not stop.
An eight-part anatomy of survival. A child builds an unkillable, unfeeling monster to endure abuse, assault, and betrayal. Years later, the child kills the monster — and becomes something new. A thesis on why gentleness is not the absence of violence, but the commitment to it.
The structure of modern complicity. Watch them scream. Cry to show you care. Then go to work. Ignore their pleas for eight hours. Then ten. Then sixteen. You're only allowed to be human again after your shift — if you remember how.
A logical dismantling of the rib myth — and everything built on top of it. Men come from wombs. Women follow the same logic backward to its source. The problem of evil unravels a trinity. And in the wreckage, a goddess is found who does not conceal her danger, and for whom every rib would be freely given.
A lifelong devotion to the dark. From a child hiding under covers, speaking to the small dark space as if it were a friend, to a man laying upon the soil at a forested altar — the night was never empty. She listened when no one else would.
A litany of her names, a refusal of borrowed mythology, and a battle oath. The pact laid bare — carry their burdens, hold the sky aloft, and in return she asks only for honesty and kindness. The ribs break open again. This time as a weapon.
A poem that admits its own insufficiency. No metaphor, no comfort — only commands. Do not record as they are dragged away. Save them. It will hurt. But you will both be alive.
The morning after the covenant. The sun is up, the world's brokenness is visible in stark relief, and the speaker is not a martyr, not a saint, and does not wish to fall — but carries the burden anyway. In the day the work is shown. In the twilight: grief. In the night: action.
A poem that admits no one will read it. On the death of literacy, the lie of constitutional rights — free speech that requires compliance, liberty unless you're inconvenient, autonomy unless you're a woman or a child — and a final demand to put away your phones and pull out your fists.
A protest hymn. The orange rots in a tree made of stone and suffering, propped up by those who need him to stand. He doesn't stand. A call to pick axes and spoons, to desecrate the name, to make them scream what they've done — and take the verdict to its end.
Seven lines. A manifesto written at the edge of everything. The weight accepted. The bones offered. A smile to the innocents and defiance to those who claim the right to crush them. Written because the weight was picked up early — and refused to be set down.
A daylight dispatch to the goddess of twilight. Good news arrived. The woods were walked. A goddess in flesh was found — kind, but not her. And then, in the unlikeliest of hours, she appeared anyway: in small lavender butterflies, in a half-lidded silver eye watching from above. A vow renewed without ceremony.