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?