Sillygoose Gallery

Weight of Silence 

Her face is a museum of quiet agony, each bruise a brushstroke in the art of suffering. They call it resilience, she calls it rot. Dignity drips from her lips like a prayer unanswered. She smiles, because the world loves its status quo. 

Worn & Numbered 

Stamped, bruised, cataloged, and  forgotten. she stares through the glass of her own reflection, manufactured, modified, and barely holding together. A tear clings to her cheek like a failed experiment, a glitch in the machine. She was built to endure, but the cracks are showing.

The Drowned Saint 

Her eyes hold the weight of the abyss, cold, infinite, watching. Salt has made a relic of her skin, the tide has crowned her in ruin. Drowned but not dead, she lingers, waiting for the sea to exhale her name.

Cīhuapīlli 

She does not belong to you. She is ink and bone, winter and fire. She is not a relic, not a story in your history books. She does not ask to be remembered, she demands it.

Flower Power 

They dressed her up in lace and called her pretty. She was never delicate. Power hums beneath her skin, ancient and unshaken. They draped her in petals to soften the edges, but steel does not bend for roses. She does not rise, she looms, rooted deep, unmovable. Fire wrapped in flesh. She is not becoming. She already is.