Orientation transcript for new Department recruits. Circulation restricted to clearance level 3 and above. A dystopian narrative presented as a transcript.

“I spent the morning destroying evidence” the world mistook it for care. What else have we perfected, besides vanishing beautifully?

In a stadium of light and noise, one fig tries to learn the language of joy. A meditation on performance, alienation, and the small tragedy of trying to belong.

"They didn’t save me. Not in the way that word is usually meant. But they gave me back the morning. A reason to pull the blinds. To let the light in."

For anyone who built castles from couch cushions, ruled kingdoms in glitter shoes, or heard secrets in puddles, this is for you. A call to play again with wonder in your pocket and dirt on your knees. Step into this realm where the sky is candy and the worms are wise.

A bouquet split in half. A bee whispers at the edge of goodbye. Petals fall into dinner, and still, she leaves gently, like something wild remembering how to bloom.

What if your dining table remembered the forest? This spoken-land acknowledgment isn’t ceremonial, it’s personal, physical, and deeply inconvenient. A poem that walks barefoot through the house, naming the cost of comfort, and whispering sorry to every floorboard.

To be watched is not the same as being seen. A piece about visibility, misunderstanding, and the deliberate rebellion of withholding yourself.

A soft-spoken reckoning. A ritual for when the world comes calling.

I’ve never quite understood keys. Or how something so small can decide if you’re allowed back in. In "Keys", part of the "Things I Don’t Understand" series, I try to unlock a door. The door has thoughts. The key has memory. And apparently, I have something to answer for.