08/05/2025
This is either a breakdown or a pop-up shop as a result of some kind of complex that I didn’t earn.
Pieces of me painted on instinct.
Glimpses of my being shot on impulse.
I’m not pricing them like they’re in a gallery—because they’re not. And I’m still figuring out how to price parts of myself.
They’re in my trunk,
in my room,
on my floor.
They’re waiting to belong to somebody who gets them.
Maybe it’s you.
Speak up and claim yours.
