The quiet ones. The ones alone. The fragile ones. The broken ones. The ones who cry. The ones who sing. The ones who dance. The ones who shake. The ones who shiver. The ones lost. The ones stuck. And the ones who think that’s their own fault. The ones with hairy legs. And the ones with smooth. The ones with the jewelry. The ones who breathe deep. The ones who never shower. The ones who constantly shower. The ones who choose to be sad. The ones who seek a companion. The ones who get called flirts. And the ones insulted for being called nice. The ones who never interrupt. The ones with the painted nails. The ones not into sports. The ones unflushed. The ones open about their feelings. The ones who think about jumping. The ones who put one foot in front of the other and pretend the treadmill under them has fallen away. The ones fractured but not broken and the ones pointing out the difference. The ones crawling out. The ones who know it’s good to lose. The ones forever in their own heads. The ones who cannot support the weight. And the ones who continue to support every weight but their own. The ones who believe in fear. The ones stuck in mirrors. The ones twisting caps to pop pills. And the ones twisting caps to help others pop pills. The ones always wrinkled. And the ones with a personal steamer. The ones who love the tiny moments. And the ones moving too fast to notice. The ones who don’t stand up straight. The ones with no change of clothes. And the ones with clothes never worn. The ones with the shiny teeth. And the ones with the bad breath. The ones who never let it work. The ones out of synch, even with their self. The ones holding hearts they never knew. The ones on the moon, for they have never stepped upon dreams. The ones who say things are fine, when clearly they are falling apart. The ones just out of reach. The ones who surprise others, just to see their faces. The ones hosting to create safe spaces. The ones who lose the pen cap before it is even time to recap. The ones who tell themselves they will do it later. The ones who tuck on a regular basis. The ones who never stop looking inside. The ones who have a hard time waking up in the morning. And the ones who never slept in the first place. The ones wearing a noose Monday to Friday. The ones who refer to that as a tie. The ones bent over. The ones stuck straight. The ones The ones weary and cracking and snapping and crinkling and snapping and twirling. The ones motionless. The ones who refuse to be this or to be that. The ones on the other side of all the closed doors. The ones so far gone, they are numb to the pain. The ones curated. And the ones uncurated, the ones not picked, lying motionless on the bathroom floor or closed up in an abandoned notebook or tucked away on a lost hard drive. The ones who don’t participate in the game. The ones who know this list is never–ending. The ones with a mouth full of food. The ones who start the fires. The ones just plain smiling, because who needs a reason. The ones watching movements. And the ones moving too fast to watch. The ones pulling shots. And the ones stacking bricks. The ones who let sexual pleasures rule them. And the ones who throw those pleasures into the wind. And the ones unable to know the pleasures, even once. The working ones and the professional ones. The unprofessional ones, and the ones who choose to not understand what that even means. The ones who run to their appointments, and the ones waiting for the runners. The ones with the cuts. The ones who never think twice about anything, ever. The ones in the dresses and the ones in the heels. The ones with short tempers. The ones in the thongs. The ones with shiny white teeth. The ones marking their calendar wall. The ones raising a flag. And the ones burning them. The ones who huff and puff. The ones fighting all of their own battles. The ones who mistake constructs as their reality. The ones who are not afraid to admit that they are afraid. The ones who stare at nothing just to get away. The ones who don’t need the boxes to tell them how to feel. Or to tell them who they are. The ones who don’t need the cigarettes or the cowboy boots. The ones who search for loneliness far more than happiness. And the ones who never search at all. The ones who never hide their self inside a leather jacket. The ones who have never had two different sides to the grass. The ones who are never missed. And the ones constantly away. The ones who connect will all of these sentences. And the ones who don't. The ones who never take the time to just look up and wonder. And the ones who are always in the clouds. The ones who do not need another to make them feel complete. And the ones who do not need another to come to a conclusion. Especially when the conclusion comes from inside. The ones who climb far up into the trees. The ones never showing skin. And the ones barely clothed. The ones carrying thunder overhead. The ones with the bags full of stuff. The ones who would rather feel the rain than see it on a screen. The ones who keep it in but let it all out when the time is right. The ones who don’t treat everything they ever do as a competition. The ones who ignore compensation, and the ones who would rather laceration. The ones that admit and embrace they are broken, because everyone is broken. The ones who hold their beliefs firmly and would rather die than give them up. The ones who wish they were taller. And the ones who love just where they are at. The ones who don’t agree with the meanings or the definitions that are handed to them. The ones who thrive on lying. The ones comfortable with not being masculine and proud and perfect and together at all times. The ones who are so afraid of admitting and being who they are because they have been taught to do so. The ones who don’t need a protruding rod of flesh to dictate who they are or, more so, who they are not. The ones who jump off the cliff, willingly, in order to feel everything all at once and not pay attention to anything but themselves, for once. The ones who touch without permission. The ones receiving that touch, and refuse to let it slide. And the ones who have to let it slide, out of fear or whatever else freezes them. And still, the ones that caused the freezing in the first place. The ones who always make eye contact, but not the ones who stare at you because they are afraid of the challenge of something they have never seen before. But maybe, it’s them too. It’s definitely them too. The ones who have read this far and for everything that has ever made them everything they are at this very moment and for every other possible thing that they will evolve into. It is for everything they have ever touched and ate and drank and loved and seen and thought and heard and smelled and thrown and rode and held and pushed and pulled and turned and kissed and worn and driven and felt and layed on and dove into and tested out and cut from and heard about and opened up and protruded from and cared about and worked for and all the other things and all the other people that can never be just like them.
2017 – 2020, inkjet print on 8.5”x11” bond paper taped together to form 25.5”x40” poster which was then ripped in half to be split between friends (as it exists currently, since more is being added, it is updated here on this page as text).