“2:38am.

1996 Toyota Camrys and Honda Civics are all that I can see,

lonely people on busy streets

I lay my head back against this car seat,

sitting lower than my eyes seem because

I don't want to be seen at this time.

I guess,

I should also be asleep right now but

i’ve created beds under each of my ribs

where the monsters sleep.

They speak to me at night

and I try to avoid them but…”

“Most of the time I feel like I have no physical form. If anything, this body has held me back from so much. I can never explain how my outward appearance does not mirror my various ideological states. Both are completely separate entities and most of the time it feels like they are in no way synonymous. If I was to explain how I see myself, I would say erotic, malevolent, violent, and delicate; not in a way that’s fragile but in a way that you touch something so lightly because otherwise you might kill it…”

“This is a state I hope to someday feel both inside and out.”

“Hurting people is a cycle. Someone hurts someone else because they themselves are hurt because of the actions of someone else then the person they hurt goes on to hurt someone else...and so on and so on. I know in a nonlinear way I have been the reason for someone I don’t even know getting hurt...and I wish I could apologize to them...In the past I have been really mean and careless about how my actions affected others. Karma has taught me the hard way how to exist in the presence of truth and love and never contribute to the cycle again. And how the impact of inflicting pain lends to deeper consequence in ways you may never know. I think about the butterfly effect... I just want my determinism to radiate love, inspiration, and other really positive shit.”

“everything in this piece brings me joy, from the bright colors to the tropical leaves. it feels especially important to see myself in this beautiful, magnificent glory because i was going through an intense period of depression and loneliness while kalie and i were brainstorming what this would look like.

envisioning joy (even when you can't feel it at the moment) is radical self-preservation and survival in a world like ours.

if i had to describe what this piece makes me feel, i'd say 'my final form after the revolution comes and capitalism, racism, sexism, transphobia, fatphobia, and all other -isms have all been abolished.'“

“…Do not mistake my kindness for weakness

Kindness is for the kind

For all the dirty hands gratuitously grabbing at the ladle handle of my affections

When you catch a dry ice burn

I won't sacrifice a drop of my hydration

on tears for your predicament

I am not an object for your consumption”

“While looking at the moon, I begin to think life is infinite.

They say you live your life until it ends—

But while looking at the moon...”

“…I never expected myself—2 years now, after his death—to long for those days right after his funeral when he was the only thing I could think about. I was so dehydrated from crying that the sobs would come without tears, as I thought about every question I still had to ask him; the stories I couldn’t exactly remember the punchline to. Those first few days and weeks and even months, he was still so fresh in my mind. I’m finding it harder now after so much time to make the space in my days to hold court with his ghost. There are days I don’t think of you at all. And sure, those days I don’t cry. But they make me miss you so much more. The only time we get to spend together anymore is when I’m waist deep in grief.”

“…I was pushed and acted in some insane behavior because I was angry and hurt. I wanted my ex partner to feel the anger and hurt he put me through. I would not stop until he did. I regret acting that way. It’s a lesson and all I can do is grow and learn from it. I still find myself trying to bring him pain, but I catch it and try to fix it.

Since I last met you for this interview, I’ve decided to cut my ex partner out of my life. I have grown immensely for the better with the help of some amazing friends who keep me sane and grounded. They remind me of the person I used to be when I had communication with my ex partner and remind me of what good I have now. For those gal pals and friends who have helped me grow in the last couple of months, I am eternally grateful for your presence in my life.”

“…As I’m opening the passenger side door, I hear Beach Houses “Master of None” playing. As I’m looking the mystery boy up and down, I realize we have pretty similar style. He’s wearing a beat up flannel, but it isn’t beat up in a way that makes him look sloppy. Black skinny jeans accompany this, or at least they look black in the dim light. Though he is sitting, I can tell he’s tall. He has scruffy blonde hair and Harry Potter-esque glasses. I’ve been staring for too long.

“Hi,” I say, with the slight tinge of it being a question more than a statement. “I’m --.”; he says back. I must look confused. I mean, how could I not be? A random boy just showed up at my house and he may or may not be a serial killer, and me, being me, decided it would be a good idea to get into his car. I’m assuming he already knows my name, so I decide not to say it back. I put my seatbelt on, with no idea of where we’re going or what we’re going to do. Another Beach House song comes on.”

“As a girl I was taught me to be beautiful and kind, how to buy pretty underwear and wear it to bed, how to stroke a man’s hair while he slipped asleep, and how to cry with lips pressed tight, not to let a whisper or a whimper out, not to wake up the men sleeping next to me, sharing my pillow, stealing my blanket.

And yet in my dreams I scream. I have lived in recurring nightmares that follow me like a local shadow, waiting for me to sink back in, and I have made them home. I have night terrors of the man who locked me in his room, holding me down on my knees, pleading with me to just fucking do it, why did I even go home with him if not to fucking just do it? Sometimes I am 18 again, and I do it, because I owe it to him. Sometimes, instead, when he forces himself in my mouth, I bite down. I am just as disoriented from each when I wake up. But at least, when I jolt awake drenched in fear and sweat, I am able to take back my blanket and push my bedfellow off the pillow. If I am dreaming I am powerful. If I am dreaming I am fighting.

I no longer cut when I am dark, but my nighttime is scarred by the shadowy parts of myself that I’ve been asked to hide. When I dream I begin to recover - and I patch myself up to do it all again.”

“…Rage, when I finally do let it all out, feels like a loud, overwhelming vulnerability. I feel like screaming and crying, to be undeniably heard and yet not seen at all. It feels ugly. But then I think about the internalized notions that deem such feelings as ugly: that pain must be private, that expressing too loudly means you're crazy, that you should maintain the image of the quiet, docile woman, the bubbly, carefree girl. And after a while, realizing all of that in itself also made me rage: that I deny what I feel, this part of myself that pains and wails, or else risk tarnishing the parts of myself I am actively proud of, that is easier to swallow.

When my best friend and I were going through heavy stuff, when pressure or rage would quietly sink us in a way we couldn't think through, we used to take our empty wine bottles or buy a bunch of cheap dishes and smash them. I forget where we first got the idea, but there was something precious about partaking in this odd ritual together without needing to provide any explanation. There's a weird rush and lightness after doing something that both feels taboo and is active (and harmless) destruction. We got to feel to the full extent, and then let go, and work through the complex parts…”

“sometimes i forget people can see me. it’s a thing that happens every now and again, like when i’m walking down the street or maybe sitting in the park. sometimes i would rather not know that people can see me, that i have to exist in their minds and then their minds, more often than not, try to find me a fitting place among the ones they’ve seen before, and then i become checked, more often than not, against lists of preseen things because that’s how this type of brain works. eventually it will find a place adequate enough. but sometimes i forget people can see me and i forget about the checked lists and i forget this isn’t really my body and i’m back with the leaves who only really care about the sun and the moon and the turning and the growing.”

“…I was supposed to be a boy

So I'm taking this boy

hiding inside and asking him

to remind you of the truth

of the sacred womb where you formed

of the accommodating cunt from which you emerged

that your first dance was with these hips

that these nipples could continue

to nourish you in ways that can only

be explained as magic

that self less with the right person

is an act of pure love

and as that boy speaks

maybe I'll hear his whisper

I wasn't supposed to be a boy

Or even a girl

but a lighthouse for myself

striving to always stay lit. “

"You died.

I cried.

And kept on getting up.

A little slower.

And a lot more deadly."

—Assata Shakur, Assata: An Autobiography

Check out Billy's work on Instagram: @littlestarchild

or in person on the streets of Montréal

“…The first time I had ever stepped foot in a Target was with you. I decided on the spot that I wanted to buy a Kodak disposable camera. Hadn’t held one in so long, and I wanted a physical reminder of these already fleeting memories.

Everyone knew there was an expiration date from the very beginning. Sometimes I would look at you and just wonder when it would hit.

I wanted tangible proof, so that years down the road I could look back at them. Maybe reminisce a bit, fondly look back on these distant memories. But no pain. I wanted to remember the parts that felt good, remember that there were parts that felt good, and preserve them in glossy print.

My mind is already numbing out, and trying to erase so many of those memories, blurring them and pushing them out. I look at the photos, and I see myself on worn hands and knees, piecing together the story that I wish I could tell…”