I am stitched from seasons you cannot see. My thoughts form clouds, drifting in tangled spirals of maybe and memory. Some days, my smile rains quietly— on colors I never meant to wear.

There’s thunder behind my eyes, a sunrise stitched in my throat, and somewhere above my lips, a storm forgets how to end.

I do not always make sense, but I am honest— a walking sky of shifting threads, with rainbows that ache just to be understood.

Made with love and wools