An open letter to ballet.
Writer’s block, imposter’s syndrome, and ruby-hilted swords.
What I remember best about it; Was the way the red clay; Clung to her fur like leaves.
On climate grief and fading hope.
It’s a place to grow, and learn, for sure, but always a stop along the way to some destination.
The moment like glass; the shards like regret.
The last days of the Co-op bookshop.
Notes on colourism.
You have looked death in the eyes and he is an American.
On transient spaces and impersonal utility.