Within is the laundry list of a poor unfortunate soul, a hungry flirtatious sweet tooth.
She is Icarus without Apollo.
Reborn from ashes hoping to turn the residual melancholy into a spectacle.
She writes of heartache and loneliness, joy, and comfort, how art shapes her world.
She writes with a burning, writhing need to understand her humanity.
She writes about everyone she’s ever met, and the people she never will.
Within is a love letter to herself, and to all the ones who can’t use their words.
Within is a promise to keep loving all the beautiful, disgusting, amazing, horrendous parts of herself.
She writes alone in the a.m, hoping her words scream loud enough before her coffee goes cold.