They tried to erase me once, but stories have a way of finding their way back.
This isn't where I started, but it's another canvas to begin again.

I come from a line of storytellers words flow in my blood, in the echoes of those before me. What I write isn't polished to perfection; it's raw, layered, sometimes jagged, sometimes soft. Think of it as sketches in ink, fragments of color, pieces of people that never quite fit but still belong somewhere.
If you're looking for neat endings or sunshine wrapped in a bow, this isn't it. What you'll find here is midnight honesty, fragile hope, and emotions spilled like paint across a page.
This space is for the ones who wander back, the voices that won't stay quiet, and for me beginning again, stubbornly, word after word