it’s warm here. my eyes beneath begin to shine.
we are all the same.
slow, warm, eager
we are all the same.
we are all the same.
slow, warm, eager
we are all the same.
My mother burns and freckles under the sun—as the heat thickens. Her complexion still reveals to me attributes I do not possess.
I twist until my melanin bruises, and I’m reminded: so much of me is made up of her.
My mother, as a narrator, her gaze upending my understanding of blackness.
Posing us in front of abandoned structures and overgrown landscapes, we exist in totally different worlds. The black and white beautifully glows in each frame—something I try to reimagine now. Her Holga sits in my college dorm. Returning to her gaze, I meet her with my own
I twist until my melanin bruises, and I’m reminded: so much of me is made up of her.
My mother, as a narrator, her gaze upending my understanding of blackness.
Posing us in front of abandoned structures and overgrown landscapes, we exist in totally different worlds. The black and white beautifully glows in each frame—something I try to reimagine now. Her Holga sits in my college dorm. Returning to her gaze, I meet her with my own