The Tapestry of Me is not a collection so much as it is an unfolding—thread by thread, wound by wound, breath by breath. It is what happens when a life refuses to stay quiet inside the shapes it was forced into. Three books, yes, but also three thresholds. Three kinds of remembering. Three ways of saying: I am still here, and I have learned to speak in the language of what tried to erase me.
It begins with Saint Woman, where desire is no longer something to hide or apologize for, but something sacred and dangerous—an altar made of flesh and flame. This first book is reclamation: of body, of sexuality, of voice after a lifetime shaped by compulsory heterosexuality and inherited silence. Here, intimacy becomes ritual, longing becomes scripture, and the body stops asking permission to exist. It is the first fracture in the architecture of obedience—the moment the old faith begins to tremble under the weight of awakening.
From that trembling rises The Witch Hare, a book that turns outward and backward at once, moving through deconstruction and into devotion of a different kind. It is where faith is interrogated and rewritten, where witchcraft is not only practiced but remembered as lineage, resistance, and survival. This volume holds both personal testimony and historical excavation—tracing witchcraft, Christian doctrine, and the ways spiritual systems have been used to discipline, punish, and define bodies, especially those of women and the accused. And it does not end there. The Witch Hare becomes an ecosystem of its own—future editions, companion works, expanding studies of witchcraft as lived knowledge rather than aesthetic, each branch growing like something stubborn and alive in the soil of reclamation.
And then there is My Demons Have Demons, the book that does not flinch. The one that turns toward the origin of the fire. This is memoir in its most unguarded form—childhood, generational trauma, domestic violence, sibling abuse, CPTSD, and the slow shaping of a nervous system taught to survive instead of live. It carries something rare: photographs, journal scans, the physical evidence of memory refusing to remain abstract. It is also an act of advocacy, especially for a mother no longer here, held in complexity rather than simplicity, grief rather than erasure. This work confronts what is often hidden behind the language of “family” and “faith”—how violence can be normalized, how religion can be used to justify harm, and how “God’s will” can be spoken like a cover story over the body’s deepest injuries. And like the others, it does not end at the cover. It spawns further works—smaller reckonings, companion texts, continuations of testimony that refuse closure in favor of truth.
Together, these three books form a living structure. Not a straight line, but a web. A system of echoes. Each one bleeding into the next, each one expanding outward into its own ecosystem of meaning, research, myth, confession, and witness. This is not just a trilogy—it is a cartography of becoming. A record of what it costs to survive what was never meant to be survivable, and what it means to turn that survival into art without softening its edges.
The tapestry begins here.
The Memoir Ecosystem
Saint Woman | The Witch Hare | My Demons Have Demons
