What Stillness Leaves Behind

What Stillness Leaves Behind

I didn’t write Still to be consumed.

It isn’t tidy. It isn’t comforting. It doesn’t hold your hand.
It waits. It stares back. It doesn’t apologize for what it becomes.

This was written in ritual—over months, in silence, in hunger.
It is not a performance. It’s what happens after the performance ends.

Still is about the sacred violence of being seen.
Not through the lens of love or kink or even desire—
but through that unbearable middle space where a body becomes public
and no one comes to stop it.

She doesn’t move.
They touch her.
They leave.

And she stays.

That’s the whole book. Everything else is ache and salt.

If it’s too much, look away.
But if it wrecks you: stay.
That’s the point.