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 // I confess