A poem scraped from the edge. About falling, freedom, and the scars we wear like medals.
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Anarcho-syndicalism could’ve saved us. But we’re too selfish, too scared, and too far gone.
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A poem for the messengers that crawl in when no one else can reach you.
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Ketosis, fasting, RSO, and the protocol that’s rebuilding me from the inside out.
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After cancer, I’m not sticking around to save a country that doesn’t want saving. I’m chasing life, not permission.
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What Fighting for My Life Taught Me About the American Healthcare Racket
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Aphrodite’s anarchist sister, a joint, and the kind of love that leaves claw marks.
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Thanks carved from scars, silence, and survival. No candles. Just the wreckage and the will to rise.
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I need to say this.
