Growing up, I thought anger was my power.
I didnt know what to do with the softness underneath, so I hid it,
under loudness,
under sharpness,
under whatever kept me alive.

I never hurt anyone badly,
but I wanted people to believe I could.
that belief kept me safe,
but that belief made me lonely.

all my friends were dealers, fighters,
people who had to carry weight.
so I moved like them,
spoke like them,
I was apart of it,
but I never fully felt inside of it.

now i'm in a space where
no one expects that armor,
and I don't know what to do with it.
do I shed it?
do I mourn it?

this series is that in-between.

guns that don't shoot,
bodies holding power they don't want to use.
ceramics shaped like they could cut you,
but they're hollow, still,
like a quiet bush of thorns that overgrew.

this is what it feels like to
outgrow your own defense.
to carry violence in your history,
but not in your hands.
to be mistaken for a threat ,
when all you want to be is understood.

this is a gun

and you cant control it.