This is honestly one of my most violent pieces—not just because of the darker atmosphere I tried to capture, but because of the meaning behind it.

 I created this during a time when my urges became more intense, and the possibility of hurting another classmate felt like a ticking time bomb, something terrifyingly real. 

This piece isn’t just a message about how staying silent can hurt not only yourself but also the person you fantasize about targeting. It's also meant to express those urges themselves. In a way, this piece acts as a barrier between my violent impulses and who I am as a person.

I created this piece after realizing something I never thought I’d feel: maybe I am wanted. Maybe there’s a place for me to belong.

For a long time, I believed that after high school, I’d end up alone. I looked at the other kids at school—better personalities, better looks, less awkward, more open. Everything about them felt built for friendships, for connection. Everything I thought I lacked.

I used to think my current friends stuck around for two reasons:

1. Pity

2. They had no one else.

But after spending a week in D.C. at a leadership conference, I felt something shift. Just a sliver of hope. I had… something.
Yeah, I was weird. Yeah, I had trouble talking. But if I found a group as weird as me—and I tried again—I could win big.

Still, it’s not that easy.
When you’ve spent years believing you don’t belong, suddenly feeling like maybe you do is like holding a tangled ball of yarn. You don’t just drop it and move on. You spend time—maybe a lifetime—trying to unravel it.

Before I explain this piece, I want to say this upfront: I’ve done some questionable things toward female classmates. I won’t say what, but I will say this—ever since I started focusing on my art, I’ve tried to move away from that mindset.

But my mind didn’t just flip a switch.
I’ve called myself a creep—because of what I’ve done, because I struggle to show emotions, because I’ve never really taken the time to see my own worth. And when one of my own friends called me a creep, it only made it harder to separate who I am from what I’ve done.

Still, over the years, I’ve learned this: my past doesn’t define me. What I do now does.
That said, the pressure to never fall back into that mindset still haunts me. If I look at someone the wrong way, if I act a little strange, and someone gives me a weird look, it all comes crashing back. The fear. The shame. And with it, the self-love I fought to rebuild.

This piece is a tightrope walk—showing how, when you’re already carrying the weight of feeling like a weirdo, any small trigger can push you right over the edge.

Ask anyone I’m friends with—I’m very hard to talk to. Not only do I struggle to show emotion in my voice, but I also deal with social anxiety. It makes connecting with people difficult. Even when I want to get to know someone, I often turn the other way.

And yet, when I do have people—people who love me, who stay by my side even when I come off emotionless—I just want to hold them and say thank you. Even when I try to smile on cue and it comes out awkward. Even when I make a joke and forget to smile. Even when I’m in a crowd and stay quiet because I’m afraid of getting weird looks, they’re still there.

I want to tell them how much I love them. But with all these barriers, it’s hard.
This piece is about how pent-up experiences don’t just trap your mind; they change the way you carry your safety and how you show love.