in this current state
of isolation
of solitude
of protection?
how do we relate?
when every gesture
has a lag
every laugh
has a glitch
how do we connect?
i already believed in auras
now more than ever
something is missing
something is fragmented by the reflection of the screen
by the rectangular version of myself
holding eye contact
while i talk to people i haven't felt in months
or ever
there are some relationships that have only ever existed in this space of
how do we love?
even when in isolation with the ones we love
the conversations begin to repeat themselves
even when far apart from the ones we love
the conversations begin to repeat themselves
how do we reach out?
across the duplicity
of never ending communication
and complete isolation
a shot in the dark
an ephemeral notification
a spark of hope
where is the space for comfort, for touch?
for warmth
for embrace
for hands
not just fingertips
where is the humanity?
in this world built by our predecessors,
did they forget
who we are?
something i fear is
the performance of love
it’s done so easily
and so often
it’s become commonplace
to make the gestures
the comments
the poses
to create a grid of evidence
that we are
only to be scrolling
back to back
on different screens
in the same bed
something i fear is
losing how to express love
except through a double tap
on an impermeable glass window
that gazes into
the world
something i fear is
that we’re forgetting how to remember
we rely too heavily on flashbacks and memories
to remember how and when and where
we love
who we love
why we love
i fear the performance is slowly becoming all we have
how does this space
of immateriality become
a womb of immortal memory
a bank of moments
that we can
refer to
reflect on
to show us
who we
who we
to remind us how to be the best version of ourselves
how does the interconnectedness
we insist on teach us
how to reach out
or relate
can it become where we
find a whisper across an ocean of waves
that resonates with our own soul
more than anything ever has before
can it become where we learn to
disseminate and divulge secrets of humanity
only to find an answer, a reflection, an other
who feels the same
who wants the same
who craves the same
can it become a relic
of our humanity
of this world
rather than a place that seems to be already sold
on being
a reflection of our loneliness
can it become a space of love, of warmth, of hope,
rather than a place where that is lost


Life gets distilled into singular moments. Sometimes I feel like I’ll never stop wanting all the things and people and places that I’ve wanted.

When I question why I’m here, sometimes I think it’s just to make a good story. I know I always have to be prepared to walk away. And it’s not hard to know that the simple things are ultimately what matter, but it’s difficult to get off the ride.

It’s a carnival. It’s lonely out here. Oftentimes, I live inside my head too much. Reality’s stark; my imagination is lean. I’ve always been a magnet for happening.

The life I want is the one I have, but how can I be sure?

Beauty is painful. My entire life gets lost in it: muddled and blended til all I know is the whirr of an aeroplane and that wherever I rest my head tonight might be the closest I’ll ever get to home. Which is to say that I was restless.

When people call me strong, what they’re really saying is: you’re on your own.

One summer I was picked out of a crowd. Still can’t quite say why. And all the places I come back to are just reminders of the things I have lost.

Sometimes I feel so alone that I can almost grasp the freedom and desperation in the potential of being anybody. How long does it take to disappear? Forty minutes with some hair dye, the rate at which no one can find you. And that, for me, is easy.

I know when I look at the stars at night that I’m staring at moments that have passed. Endings raise the hair on my skin like fear and cold air.

If you don’t know me, you’d think that I wear all this well. Transient shit.


Last summer I was in San Francisco. I yelled Solange as we cruised down Highway One, watched the fearless boys bullet down the hills (and I love them so).

I sang in Dolores Park with my Morpho and that blue butterfly, let my heart ache its way over Twin Peaks. I always know what will hurt me most later. And so a certain savour.

When I lie on the couch in a hoodie watching basketball, I’m indulging in a normal thing. I kinda feel most like the me I could’ve been, in another life, but I got this one.

I’m not afraid to say that love is the only thing that really healed me. People who experience it unconditionally and on a regular basis don’t know it as a feeling but rather a default state of being.

Still. I can’t waste time resenting the hand I got dealt. I’m lucky in many ways, I know, but mostly I didn’t come this far not to be happy.

I know that happiness will have a different look about it. It won’t be the flavour by which society persuades you.

I also know that the most I have to give will be invisible, and it will be given to you. Someone like that.

I try to tell myself to find ways to be happy with what I have now, that if this is all there ever is…

In another language, you could call it gratitude. In another language it’s called survival. The point of survival is to move forward.