I didn’t set out to find a hidden history, but I’ve been doing a lot of research lately on LGBTQ+ history within the Catholic Church, and I keep ending up in places I didn’t expect. While official Catholic teachings have often drawn boundaries around questions of sexuality, gender, and relationships, the historical record tells a much more complicated story.The deeper you look into the Church’s past, the harder it becomes to tell the story of Catholicism without also acknowle

I am so tired of looking up from the floor of our arguments, tracing the high, sharp edge of your condescension. I have been right here, texting you all day. Answering, replying, giving you attention, saying yay to what you built, only for you to decide it wasn't enough. Because I didn't cheer the way you wanted, you chose to feel abandoned. You hand me an accusation wrapped in sarcasm, blaming me for a crime I never committed. And when I offer a genuine bridge: It wasn't my

One thing I love about poetry is how metaphor and story can hold truth. My poems are moments in time, feelings translated into stanza. And although all my work holds truth, it is not always objective truth. It is truth in feeling, truth in the moment, truth in theme. I think people often approach poetry or song as if it is autobiography or fact. But poetry lives in a different kind of truth. It can be emotionally true without being literally true. The poets, mystics, philosop

It’s not fair messages, but no real dialogue. You reach for connection, but not for me in the ways I need. I don’t know how to say no, how to let go. My heart doesn’t stop beating just because it ended. And you know my Achilles’ heel, how to make me kneel. I have to stop the pain from recurring. I have to learn to believe in consistency. Antonio Canova, Psyche Revived by Cupid’s Kiss, c. 1793

Burnt out. Run down. Like a cigarette smoked to the filter still burning my fingers while pretending it doesn’t hurt. I keep pouring from an empty cup. Keep showing up half-human half-static. The tarot reads: Hanged Man. Sacred pause. Reversed King of Pentacles. Stop. The High Priestess. Rest. Unplug the wire. Let the signal drop. Let the static fade. And I am just a body left in the dark. The Magdalen with the Smoking Flame (c. 1635–1637) by Georges de La Tour

I am tired of translating hunger into softer language tired of folding myself into patience while my needs sit untouched between us like unopened letters I am tired of reaching first of asking gently then clearly then breaking when even my breaking goes unanswered love should not feel like standing at a locked door with bleeding knuckles hoping someone inside finally hears me because somewhere between the begging and the silence I remembered something: I am the prize. not a b

John Collier, 1891 I’m tired of being an emotional tampon for unwhole men, sponging up pieces they left behind, patching their cracks with my patience, distracting myself from my own edges. I’m not your oracle. Not your mom. Not your counselor. Not your bandaid. Not your plaything. I do not exist to anticipate your moods, to translate your silences, to fill the gaps you refuse to face. I am mine. I hold my own pieces, every shard and curve, every flame and shadow. I am not a

Something I’ve learned from being in the public eye Someone will always find a way to criticize the work you do that it’s not enough that it’s too this or too that without offering their hands to help build the future they’re complaining about

Sometimes self-awareness is bloody annoying. I “art” (yes, I’m using art as a verb, don’t judge me) my inner thoughts, hoping to be seen, recognized. Many artists, and really anyone trying to navigate the human condition, crave to be truly known, even while fearing exposure. I guess the question is: is it safer to be the observed or the observer? I suppose the central question in artistic expression is this: what is truth? And I wonder, through whose lens are we seeing and be

I’m starting something new, a space for my “Kat Musings.” Somewhere for my ponderings, scribbles, and the little flashes of life that linger. It is a place to share what moves me and to give you a glimpse into my inner world. When you can’t sleep, so you write a little scribble… A Flash I’ve seen you in a dream or maybe just around town somewhere between streetlight and memory Something about your eyes feels familiar like they know what I might be before I do Do you tilt your