Notes from a brain that won't look away.

They take and take and take. The invoice never changes. They just keep sending it. A poem about deliberate overwhelm, complicity, and the cost of calling it freedom.

The bar doesn’t move because you’re failing. It moves because you were never supposed to reach it.

White rich men have been rewriting this story for so long they forgot the rest of us can read.

They call it a response. A measure. A strike. Clean words for clean screens where a blip disappears and somewhere a mother doesn’t know yet.

I cannot understand racism. It doesn’t click. It doesn’t load. It just — doesn’t.
follow the late night thoughts.
