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Polyhedron is an intimate manifesto on love, absence, and selfhood. From the violated spectacle of the Eiffel Tower to dishes at midnight, a fleeting hummingbird, and the cosmic elements of stars and dirt, it explores the space we occupy between earth and sky. The piece confronts the roles women are cast into — muse, maid, specimen — rejecting the projections and performances of men, a journey from silence and erasure toward limitlessness, refusing to be reduced to an image in someone else’s story.
Staring out, six colored lights illuminate silhouettes.
The seventh, a dark void, mirrors the glittered performance of the iron lady.
For twelve months I returned to silently study her.
Used, violated, fantasized into spectacle.
Night after night she was lit, her body split into beams, raped by neon, devoured by crowds. They scream for performance but never sit with her essence.
Only when the motors stopped, the lights went dark, and she rested in exhaustion, could her beauty be seen.
Paris.
The city of love.
Not the city of romance.
Love takes one person.
Romance takes two.
Paris only taught me loneliness and misunderstanding.
And out of that birthed love: absence swelling with its own answers, silence carving out a chasm only I am invited to explore.
Demands calcify into unspoken obligations.
Dishes at midnight, water scalding my hands, blood boiling.
The bookshelf left bare, erasing a life never mine.
Tidying the remains, my final duty.
A role I never agreed to play.
Now—
Morning haze coats the gardens.
A hummingbird chased by a squirrel: flight pursued by hunger.
The moment passes.
Nothing rests but a limitless stage for my psyche.
Everywhere I run a cage awaits.
I used to mistake it for love.
Better the abyss— mirrored into infinity— than reduced to an image for your story, caged in your camera, my dignity stripped, my pain frozen and pinned like an animal for your keeping.
He mistook possession for devotion.
Victimhood for maturity.
Dismissiveness for responsibility.
I mistook fantasy for depth.
It has always been a man’s world.
But I will not live inside the movies men make for themselves.
I am often silent.
The moment I speak, their reality shatters.
I watch as they expose who they are.
For I am made of stars and soil.
Collapsing suns burn, rock hardens, earth softens, rivers dissolve.
Now they pulse through my bloodstream, blush my lips, ignite my skin.
I carry the fire of ancient stars.
I rise from the dust of earth.
When starfire and soil meet, they are limitless.
I am terrified.
And I am limitless.
Polyhedron is an intimate manifesto on love, absence, and selfhood. From the violated spectacle of the Eiffel Tower to dishes at midnight, a fleeting hummingbird, and the cosmic elements of stars and dirt, it explores the space we occupy between earth and sky. The piece confronts the roles women are cast into — muse, maid, specimen — rejecting the projections and performances of men, a journey from silence and erasure toward limitlessness, refusing to be reduced to an image in someone else’s story.
Staring out, six colored lights illuminate silhouettes.
The seventh, a dark void, mirrors the glittered performance of the iron lady.
For twelve months I returned to silently study her.
Used, violated, fantasized into spectacle.
Night after night she was lit, her body split into beams, raped by neon, devoured by crowds. They scream for performance but never sit with her essence.
Only when the motors stopped, the lights went dark, and she rested in exhaustion, could her beauty be seen.
Paris.
The city of love.
Not the city of romance.
Love takes one person.
Romance takes two.
Paris only taught me loneliness and misunderstanding.
And out of that birthed love: absence swelling with its own answers, silence carving out a chasm only I am invited to explore.
Demands calcify into unspoken obligations.
Dishes at midnight, water scalding my hands, blood boiling.
The bookshelf left bare, erasing a life never mine.
Tidying the remains, my final duty.
A role I never agreed to play.
Now—
Morning haze coats the gardens.
A hummingbird chased by a squirrel: flight pursued by hunger.
The moment passes.
Nothing rests but a limitless stage for my psyche.
Everywhere I run a cage awaits.
I used to mistake it for love.
Better the abyss— mirrored into infinity— than reduced to an image for your story, caged in your camera, my dignity stripped, my pain frozen and pinned like an animal for your keeping.
He mistook possession for devotion.
Victimhood for maturity.
Dismissiveness for responsibility.
I mistook fantasy for depth.
It has always been a man’s world.
But I will not live inside the movies men make for themselves.
I am often silent.
The moment I speak, their reality shatters.
I watch as they expose who they are.
For I am made of stars and soil.
Collapsing suns burn, rock hardens, earth softens, rivers dissolve.
Now they pulse through my bloodstream, blush my lips, ignite my skin.
I carry the fire of ancient stars.
I rise from the dust of earth.
When starfire and soil meet, they are limitless.
I am terrified.
And I am limitless.
