This is not a brand.
This is not a performance.
This place does not owe anyone consistency.
Nothing here has to be useful or reassuring.
This is a room for grief, silent rage and tenderness.
For moments, fragments and small strange things.
For soft things, unsettling things, ghosts and memory.
For mourning. For yearning. For melancholy.
For fucking hysteria, or whatever men love to call
women’s complexity.
I am allowed to disappear and, perhaps, return.
Because this place is meant to serve my soul.
To send into the void the things that eat my sanity,
slowly and relentlessly, until nothing will remain.
Until then, I am still here.
Stubborn. Defiant. Awesome. Weak.
I contain multitudes.