I see faces like yours; figured and familiar. I have feelings that lay on a shore where the sea is linear. Where there is ice that doesn't melt into water and heat isn't what it lacks. So darling, when I lose my mind in the crowd, I ask you to bring it back. 

If you find me in my comfort zone, comfort me. There is misbelonging that clings to my bones; it's under me. I've heard stories of people who dress up in costumes and go in circles; of people finding power in their unity and performing miracles. But all these stories, they brought me one thing: Monogamy. I am so lonely, and this land holds me. There is misbelonging that clings to my bones; it's under me.

Designing Boxes

Maybe there's freedom under this brick, or inside its rib. Maybe there are spaces that are meant for sand storms and others that are meant to stay shores. I color this concrete; I hide its flaws in repeat. I thought I design life and coat homes with a dress, but every time I hear the earth it asks me: why are you building boxes?

"I don't know," I answer. "I'm just an artist that ran into school paper. I have a grey scale that follows my lines, and I'm learning to make them straighter. I practice color levels and make new clocks, I'm not the builder of this box. I change it into a form of belonging, or solitude. I change it to fit a life or its substitute."

But maybe there's more under these forms. Maybe there is nature still unborn. I hear architects saying build build, and all I hear is destroy. We're depriving earth of its cores and building weights on our joy. Maybe we're lighter, and fragile. Every time I design a box I am thrown in this battle; I am emptier than this. I am emptier than this.