Sitting with scathing collusions, I can only think about how I’ve been mistreated by my male counterparts. Time and time again – how I’ve been hurt and how I veiled it with a pink wash of love. How in this world, I am commodified, and yet I have nobody to belong to. I wish I could just envelope all of my anger and send it to the people who really need to hear it. And much to my chagrin, my anger is a corridor to my tired grief – and it’s something near oppressive. As I take historical fragments and line them with my vigorous embroidery, needles punching through flimsy linen and roving, I conjure up a quiet collection. Meditative statements and superficial paradises that I wish were there for everyone to look at. Tactile desires and violent dreamscapes for all to touch. I want them all to see but I need one to hold me without killing me; Because on top of being gay, I am scared.