There’s a reason I write from the fire.
Not the cozy kind that warms your hands — but the kind that scorches, purifies, and leaves you staring at the ashes wondering what’s left of you.
I’ve learned that poetry isn’t just art. It’s survival. It’s how I’ve stitched myself back together after betrayal, grief, and the quiet ache of being misunderstood. Every line I write is a reclamation — of voice, of worth, of sacred space.
When I wrote The Phoenix and the Pyre, I wasn’t trying to be brave. I was...