est. 1999
dedicated to everyone who wonders if I’m writing about them. I am.
my archive of unsent confessions. faceless moments.
in a world obsessed with trophies and surface,
I chose anonymity
poems, diary confessions, hotel-room truths.
written in the shadows—while they slept,
no goodbyes, just the folded Benjamin I kept.
my beauty paid the bill and the price.
i weaponized what they worshipped.
captured faceless proof I existed,
not the shape I left in their sheets.
who am i to rage against being ornamental
when I mastered the art of the pedestal?
xx alice // signed anonymous words
hi.
you’re a tragedy, aren’t you? - he asked
i write so I can breathe
we’re all just a bunch of addicts,
struggling with
our drug
of choice
words my vice as no one listens
snorting pretty little lines of
Snow White lies
my existence is a scandal
she wore a thousand faces
all to hide her own
so they may see me
buried by the main character
her beauty is her brain
xo, signed anonymous words