FROM THE COLLECTION: And we call that love?

I thought I had a refined taste.

Ceremonial cacao, 

Specialty coffee,

Local eco foods.

Yeah, I thought I had a taste.


I thought I was resourceful.

Building career,

Channeling arts,

Learning bodywork.

Yeah, I thought I was resourceful.



I walk into a department called “men”;

I forget about my refined taste, resourcefulness, and common sense.

Off of the shelves of ingredients, I pick mostly misfits.


One eats burgers all day long.

One is even harder traumatized than me.

One is always on “mute” mode.

One can’t recognize basic emotions.

One inner navigation broke down.


I sit in the kitchen, staring at those strange ingredients out of which I wanted to prepare a delicious memory for two. 

And I think to myself, “What the fuck were you thinking, doing groceries? Were you high on MDMA, or did you forget how to read labels?!


I remind myself I still need to learn that:

Out of distance, I can’t build intimacy;

Out of avoidance, I can’t grow trust;

And out of trauma, I can’t make medicine.


Love letters, fresh paintings, new poems, travel stories, and shop updates straight into your inbox. Join the tribe and subscribe to my newsletter.

I prefer dark chocolate to cookies, yet I'll still have to serve you a box of gluten-free goodies. This website can't work properly without a delicious snack. That being said, you'll have to agree to cookies if you wish to enjoy the world of art.