was it always so hollow? 1

anger and resentment cut like fine knives through bonds built too quickly

slicing under silver

catching flesh

betrayal of a different kind

pick a card

pick a card, any card
but none will be an ace
when all you find
is misdirected
anger
resentment
rage

played your hand
made a choice
of where the plant will seed
now hold a hand
and pray that all
you've planned will come to be

Viva Viva

For Palestine. For liberation.

I wanted to make an ode to Palestine. It's in the mixed style of Victorian mourning and lovers eyes jewelry. The florals are Palestinian poppies, which grow abundantly across Palestine - they represent the colors of the flag, the connection between Palestinians and their land, and is often depicted in cultural art and literature.

To those who have lost their homes and land. To those who have lost their lives. To those who have had the chance to return only briefly. To those who have never been able to return, or visit in the first place.

This piece is ceramic with underglaze and paint, measuring approx 7.5x5.25 inches.

Thank you to everyone who entered the fundraising raffle to win this piece and to send funds to Gaza Mutual Aid. You brought in $135 for families seeking refuge.

Viva Viva Palestina, forever.

mommy, where’s my nose?

I consistently think about the act of plastic surgery. it’s often justified as making someone feel better about themselves - it’s their body, their choice, so who’s to judge? it’s not about beauty standards. you just hate your nose with its bump because, well, you do.

you just cannot convince me of any of that. it comes from somewhere. whether its messaging through magazine pages, your FYP, a TV series, or the ad for some bullshit off I-580.

I wonder about the children who do not see themselves reflected in the faces of their biological parents. what does that do to a child’s psyche? what does that do to the teenager who understands those implications?

even as I sit here picking the ideology apart, it still is ingrained in me, too. it is so wildly fucked up.

it’s a privilege to have yet another year on the roster. I hope one day we are all able to shed the demand to meet ever-changing standards. or at the very least, admit that they’re not unbiased, all-natural wishes.

“LOOK BETTER. FEEL BETTER. NOW! THE COSMETIC SURGICAL CENTER OF EL CERRITO.”

beware of the man

beware of the man
who will sit back while others set you on fire
they will scald you
rip you to shreds
while he twiddles his thumbs

beware of the man
whose backbone is lime jello
he will speak to you about care and love
with fingers crossed behind his back
and make you feel like you're losing your mind

beware of the man
who will tear you down
by your deepest vulnerabilities
when once he swelled with understanding, a comforting hug
he will torch you at the earliest convenience
so he can keep his eyes closed, ears shut
and take the easy way out

beware of the white woman

beware of the white woman
who takes your name
but disdains your culture
she will call you towelhead
just to make her friends giggle
for a sigh of relief
and to keep her slate kkklean

beware of the white woman
who loves you so
but only because
she will now not just have babies,
but "little arab babies!"
exotify me, honey!

beware of the white woman
who cooks you a meal
only with the hopes
to make you feel
like a stain on her blouse
gum on her shoe
all while creating
a doormat out of you

mantra

your desire for perceived perfection is not my shortcoming.

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so much grief floats through my body, it's difficult to parse which pieces come from where.

I see a video of a daughter who lives abroad, surprising her family, after not being together for a few years. everyone is shocked. elated. I sob with them. that's the mother wound.

I'm better off. I have to remind myself of that from time to time. it's not that I'm unsure of it, it's that others aren't, and I absorb their feelings. judgements. misunderstandings. obstinance, really. I need to turn the noise down. my inability to do so? - that's also the mother wound. you have to laugh.

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oh, manipulator!

how far you'll go

will always be news to me.

I can predict all I want

and predict I will

trust me.

even if I'm on the nose

I'll be surprised

because I cannot comprehend

what it's like

to be so twisted

so dark in disguise:

the bubbly, cheery performance

the smiling eyes

no longer beckon friendship

now scream my demise

for what but money

for glory

for praise

but what will truly toil

is nothing but glazed

eyes that will lure you

and lips that will lie

oh, my sweet manipulator

enjoy your prize

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SOMETIME IN DECEMBER

All I want is peace. But it feels like the sky is falling, and also like time has simply stopped.

Back to 12 hour days. Getting the chills in abundance.

I’m not even cold.

STOP

JANUARY 1ST, 2024

Weeks gone by

maybe a month, maybe more?

much lighter now.

gone are the days of waking up feeling imprisoned. though now I become trapped in dreams.

nightmares, I guess.

they come and go. last night, none to my recollection.

previous two? terrors all the way through, because of you.

i’d love to know what it’s like to breathe so deeply.

while grasping at straws,

while choking another.

Do you feel powerful?

Do you feel needed?

I’m sure you fucking do.

I fucking pity you.

“‘fit pics” and context

1. she’s wearing an embroidered white button down, black straight leg pants, square toed mary jane shoes, and lilac socks.

2. she’s wearing an embroidered white button down from a local vintage shop, black straight leg sustainably-made work pants from Big Bud Press, square toed mary jane shoes by Sandy Liang, and lilac socks from now-defunct Entireworld.

these are the same sentences. but they’re also not.

I can guarantee if you’re fashion-minded, you envision the two sentences differently, and you have different internal emotions for each. most people would see the second fit described as more covetable than the first, because of the context, which also inherently means “how much?”, “how rare?”, “how exclusive?”, the list goes on.

I fight with context. I can’t decide whether it’s helpful or hurtful, especially in the age of the internet, tiktok, instagram, etc etc etc. context in these situations can often embolden hyper-consumerism.

let’s think about the outfit as creative output, as formulation, creating a story, etc - part of me feels as if the context stifles creativity, imagination. it becomes “I want the thing,” instead of “I want to construct an idea.” leaning towards “the thing” is where my issue sits, because trailing behind is the hyper-consumerism.

but then I pull back…

it’s not so bad to want “the thing.” we’re all trying to fit in, even if it’s to stand out among the masses, and be seen among the selected. that’s community, right?

I guess I just wish it the argument didn’t lay in a material object.

my brain inherently goes to that place of excess, of overconsumption, of comparison, etc etc. but maybe that’s my negative bias.

sometimes the how much, rare, exclusive can be positive:

how rare / exclusive = is it small batch?

how much = were people who made the piece paid properly? treated properly? in safe, comfortable conditions?

those pieces of the puzzle are important. they’re questions that exist because of our current landscape. they’re questions that have to exist because they give our choices meaning.

is my adhd showing?

“a natural beauty!”

a few months ago, an influencer and co-founder of a fashion brand hosted a pop up event. there were plenty of posts on instagram from people who attended the weekend shindig. it looked beautiful, a 70s vibe, referencing their recent promo video, which itself was super 70s Bond with a The Last Shadow Puppets-esque cherry on top.

one of the stories posts from an attendee I saw boggled my mind though, and I cant shake it. something along the lines of "a natural beauty!" - I wish I'd screenshotted it now - the exclamation typed over a zoomed-in video of said influencer / co-founder.

this person is among the more "responsible" when it comes to being open about what "beauty" procedures they've had. she talks about it often actually, and even tags her favorite clinic on instagram. the botox, the lip filler, the acne medication regime. the like... weird vibrating-or-whatever sculpting butt thing? wholly manufactured, far from “natural.”

as I mentioned, she’s open about her procedures. while the transparency is helpful, it doesn't last; the injections themselves last infinitely longer than it takes for the disclaimer to dissolve from memory. the fan who posted that instagram story is case in point.

I understand the dire “need” to shape-shift into the newest ideal, but it’s futile. the argument of “expression” always comes into play, but that is futile, too. If the expression upholds standards that one has yet to strip away, it’s not an expression at all. the act of these procedures is just falling into line, becoming defeated by the system, and in fact, reinforcing it. i’m not saying it’s easy to push against, but what’s the point of life if not an opportunity to question and push back on what constricts us the most?

this is less a moral judgement on anyone than it is a poke and prod at our ideas of transparency and disclaimers about beauty procedures. I question whether or not we should let people, especially those with large followings and influence, off the hook as they expect because they were honest once, twice, 100 times; it clearly does jack shit but fortify harm, and make the worst of us infinitely, nastily wealthier.

fashion as fantasy as fascism

for years, the conversation was, “there should be more inclusivity in fashion!"

there was a slow shift towards more diversity - in ethnicities and body types, in abilities, in age. it was quite nice for people to feel seen, even if only slightly. it was a start.

now, I’m hearing whispers of: “well, fashion is fantasy, so inclusion doesn’t really need to be in the conversation of fashion.”

if your fantasy excludes inclusion,

what does that say about your fantasy?