04
H E W O M E N
Three Panels Press
GOOD THINGS COME IN THREES.
Salma Ahmed
Lola Braut
Cheryl Cantafio
Alicia Cara
LaurelCecilia a.d.
Bhakti Deepak
Dr. Deepak Dev
Victoria Grace
Chloe Jordan
Christian Lopez
Anabel Lozano
Mirjana M. (cover artist)
Gloria Maloney
C O N T R I
Poetemi
Morgan Rose
B U T O R S
Dear Readers,
We (women) were never meant to be quiet.
Issue 04, The Women, emerges not as a gentle offering, but as a rallying cry It honors the echo of voices that refused erasure, the art that dares to remember, and the fire lit in the margins where women have long been forced to live and create. These pages do not apologize for their rage, their tenderness, or their contradiction. They celebrate it. This is not an issue about ideals or archetypes. It is about real women furious, tender, divine, mortal It is about women who have built, burned, wept, and endured Women who have raised their voices in rooms built to muffle them. Women who have carved stories into stone when paper refused them.
Here, art and language converge in resistance. We see myth rewritten through a different lens, the sacred reclaimed on women ’ s terms, and the intimate given the weight of monument. What is soft is not weak. What is quiet is not empty. These pages carry both fury and reverence as truth. Each panel is a testament. Each woman, a world. The work in this issue does not offer answers. It offers presence. It offers reclamation. It offers a mirror held up to power and a door flung open for those still waiting to be seen. We did not curate this issue to comfort We built it to confront
We are proud to present this collection of visual and written work as both testimony and tribute. It is not exhaustive. It is not finished. But it is honest and loud.
And if, while turning these pages, you feel a crack beneath your feet or a whisper rising from your bones… Good. You’re listening. Welcome to The Women.
Warmly,
Jhazzy Jhane Editor-in-Chief, Three Panels Press
PAGE 1
Panel 1: Poetry and Prose
PAGE 24
Panel 2: Photography & Art
PAGE 30
Panel 3: Special Additions
P O E T R Y & P R O S E
Salma Ahmed
Lola Braut
Cheryl Cantafio
Alicia Cara
LaurelCecilia
Bhakti Deepak
Dr. Deepak Dev
Victoria Grace
Chloe Jordan
Christian Lopez
Anabel Lozano
Gloria Maloney
Poetemi
Morgan Rose
They built the world with doors too narrow, Locks welded shut before we even knew to knock They carved laws in stone, And called them nature–
As if power were a river that only knew one shore
But I have seen hands splinter ceilings into stars, I have heard voices fracture silence like thunder Rolling across centuries of quiet obedience
I do not come asking permission I do not come meek
I carry the stories of women who burned So I could be fire, not ash
She was told her body was currency, But she spent her life building, Not selling
She was told her words were too sharp, But she carved a language that never knew a cage She was told she was small, But she cracked mountains underfoot
And still, they whisper: stay soft Stay quiet
As if softness were ever the absence of strength, As if silence were anything but a battle lost
No
We are here, Barefoot in the fields they fenced, Fingertips stained with ink and earth and blood, Lips painted with the names of those Who were swallowed whole But left echoes behind
And the echoes are growing louder
Note from the Writer:
The poem explores the raw, untamed fire within women The fierce, persistent spark that refuses to be extinguished It speaks to the way women continue to rise, push through barriers, and reclaim space in a world that often tries to quiet them
She is the first home, The soil where roots begin In her, the blueprint of life is drawn. Drawn by generations of women, Before you bear witness to your first dawn
The mystery of it all Before we even open our lungs to air, We were cradled not just in our mother’s womb, But also, in the womb of our mother’s mother A lineage of love, Folded like nesting dolls beneath skin
The strength of women is not forged It is inherited Carried in blood, In bone, In breath
Her womb does not just make life, It remembers it It holds the ache and the euphoria, The loss and the labor, The power to begin again
When you speak of her, do not speak softly Call her magic Call her strength Call her a universe wrapped in skin
For, she is more than just a mother. She is the first garden, The original fire, The echo of every beginning, She is the pulse of all things that dare to become
Note from the Writer:
This piece explores the strength of a woman ' s womb and how it connects us not only to our mothers but to many generations of women before us
I was a girl with the spirit of river water, Clear and always running Laughter roared through the air like wind blowing through fallen leaves I had scraped knees and dreams bigger than the trees I could climb
I knew nothing of silence that stings, Or the weight of eyes that linger too long Just my teddy bear, And the freedom of unbrushed hair.
One morning, the air seemed to thicken. I looked in the mirror, and my reflection looked back older. My chest filled with the heaviness of knowing.
The world seemed to turn upside down Dolls stared from my shelf like ghosts Suddenly, I worried if boys thought I was pretty For the first time in my life, I felt like a stranger in my own body
Blood bloomed as promised Not like a wound but a reminder, Of a woman ' s connection to the moon and the earth and their cycles Each month, I was filled with the ache of becoming
Now I walk with fire rushing through my veins
A stranger to the child I once was
I miss her, And yet I do not want her back
She was the seed, I am the flower that blooms Filled with petals of sharp truth
Roots as deep as the pain they grew from I am a woman now.
Beautiful and brave.
Still, I hear her laughter in my footsteps, It echoes in my heart, and it brings a smile to my face during moments of pain.
Note from the Writer:
This piece explores the transition from girlhood into womanhood and how we carry parts of who we were with us, and it helps make us the women we are
And I wept into existence, a son of Medusa Irreverent and callous
My tethered serpents struck prey from a nest of my tongue.
My eyes shone green but I forsook envy
My eyes shone green and I took vengeance
I sought and hunted, like dogs, the men and their gods
From limb-flesh to marble stone, I tore through the world, a portent of my Mother’s wrath.
Heroes fell at my feet. I built mountains of the dead to honor Medusa as the priestess
The soul of my mother gone from me forever, I climbed the stone fragments of men and their gods; to stand upon Olympus, now turned to a sea of stone.
I called to the void, “Who hasn’t harmed this woman?”
I sat upon the rubbled stone, listening to the echoes of silence, and I wept
Note from the Writer:
poem honors an aggrieved woman of mythology, Medusa
Christian Lopez|@oncour
In my village, our grandmothers don’t die. They live on in broad smiles that crack the shell of a Yagba boy’s naughtiness. In the strands of grey hair crowning our mothers’ heads In fires that remind children of dinner, mothers of the urgency of settling the feud of silence between the stack of pots and the depth of angry stomachs, fathers of home where the tired body has to be laid. Behind the trunks that shield a culprit from the lashes of the offended In folklore about gnomes, beasts, and worlds where grandmothers go. In fragile hands beaten by the rudeness of a woman ’ s shorter lifespan, relentless still in flinging groundnuts into an expectant child’s vacant palms. In wrappers that store treasures of caution and money in the control hem and its readjustment. In the perfect latch of black nylons in which the golden garri lies, unlike the sweltry market women ’ s peculiar faulty lock that must engage the teeth for freedom. In dry tits hanging in the open. In the smell of musty books.
Note from the Writer:
Here, I stubbornly explore the recognition of the enduring legacy of (dead older) women in Nigerian society and their continued presence in everyday life
Walking around the craft store, killing time
Was I tracing your steps, were you tracing mine
We locked eyes on the wedding aisle
We could blame it on paint fumes clouding our minds
We travelled back in time down that canvas corridor
Rome, dawn, a river, summer haze clearing from the Tiber
The artist and the muse, the painter and the baker’s daughter
You had ink and dust under your fingers
Stained the sheets, stained my skin
Bare to the waist, equal measures of inspiration and distraction
You were always weak to the temptation
Painting in between bouts of consummation
Your eyes were burning, as I held myself like a feast waiting to be taken Humble by birth, the goddess of your desire
A moment pierced by the cry of birds flying over Pulled back into ourselves by the rustle of paper
Is that why your gaze still lingers by the shelves of jars for favours
Note from the Writer:
La Fornarina or 'The Baker's Daughter' takes its title from its namesake painting by Raphael. It was painted just before his death It is an intimate portrait of his final lover, and believed to be his greatest love, a young woman named Margherita Luti A figure of great mystery, the poem centers her as a young woman reflecting on her lover by describing details of the painting from her perspective, while her lover remains faceless
She kneels, chaste, pious hope and yearning
A blue light rips open heaven’s veil
God’s messenger descends on wings of verity
His golden arrow flies true and steady
Pierces Teresa’s swooning heart
Her habit glows translucent, revealing her purity
God’s gift, transformation from redemption to saintly elevation
Shackles drop from her mind
Pebbles of burden fall from her rolling eyes
Implanted burning holy scriptures shine out
Blinding pure light, orgasmic tranquillity fills her soul
Ecclesiastical joy strokes her wishbone, snaps it in two
Parted sensuous trembling lips intone chants of heavenly desire
Pain and pleasure threaded together
Flames of peace lift her higher
Cocooned in a furnace of ecstasy of God’s love
Note from the Writer: Inspiration was taken from the Bernini sculpture of St Teresa, a woman of recognition
Gloria Maloney
1. A woman unwritten is not a woman unknown.
2. Silence is not absence; it is a scream without a tongue.
3. A story told without her name is theft.
4. To erase a woman is to erase a civilization.
5. Memory resurrects what history buries.
The ink dries, but her breath lingers. Erased from pages, yet carved into time, She does not vanish she waits. A whisper carried by winds of rebellion, A resurrection in every unspoken name
They buried her between margins, marked her absence as empty space
But the air is heavy with her echoes, and absence is merely another form of presence.
Her voice was never lost, only unheard, tangled in the fibers of stolen ink
And though time may crumble the paper, it cannot erase the weight of her memory. She waits in the silence, gathering strength, ready to be spoken back into existence.
Note from the Writer:
The Unwritten Women reclaims erased voices, proving that memory resists oblivion
Poetic Style: Axiomatic Poetry
Theme: Lost Histories, Erasure, & Resurgence
A woman ’ s spine is not just bone. It is a history written in vertebrae, a lineage carried through centuries of standing tall when the world begged her to kneel Each notch is a record of endurance, each curve a testament to survival. The body bends, but the spirit does not break.
They told her to bow, to yield, to make herself small enough to fit inside the spaces built for her. They mistook softness for weakness, thought that bending meant surrender, believed that silence meant acceptance. But they did not understand the alchemy of spine the way it turns grief into gold, the way it straightens even under the weight of centuries pressing down
She does not remember the first woman who refused to break. Perhaps no one does.
Perhaps she was the one who stood between her people and the storm, when the wind howled like a beast and the river rose to swallow the land. Perhaps she was the first to dig her heels into the mud and refuse to run, the first to carve shelter into stone, to build fire with her hands even as the rain tried to steal it away
Or maybe she was the one who stood in the center of a circle, accused of knowing too much. They feared her, the way she wove herbs into healing, the way she spoke with certainty, the way her eyes held knowledge no man had given her They called her a witch, bound her hands, placed flame at her feet, but even as the fire licked at her skin, her spine did not bend.
Maybe she was not a woman of war, but of words. A poet in exile, her voice outlawed, her name erased from the books written by men who feared what she had to say. Perhaps they burned her work, tore the pages from their bindings, silenced her in the ways they knew best. But even as the ink turned to ash, her words were carried forward in whispers, in the hush of women who memorized her verses beneath their breath.
The first woman who refused to break has been forgotten, but she has never been lost She lives in the marrow of those who came after In the ones who carried burdens too heavy for their shoulders but bore them anyway. In the ones who swallowed pain without letting it hollow them out In the ones who understood that strength is not always loud, that defiance is sometimes just surviving when the world wants you gone.
She has many names now.
And she does not bow.
She does not walk alone. Even when she stands in an empty room, she is never truly by herself. She carries them all the mother who bit her tongue so her children could eat, the sister who learned to run before her cage turned to a grave, the daughter who watched her father’s world crumble and built something new from its wreckage.
The weight of them does not break her. It fortifies her.
She carries the grandmother who bore labor pains with only the night as witness, who held her newborn against her chest and hummed lullabies through exhaustion. She carries the woman who worked her hands raw, so her children would never know the hunger she did. She carries the sister who was told to be quiet, but learned to speak anyway.
They live in the notches of her spine, in the ridges of her back. When she straightens, she lifts them all.
There is something holy in it, this quiet rebellion of standing tall.
Because she knows what they have tried to make women believe That they should shrink. That they should be soft enough to fold. That their bodies should curve around expectation, mold into spaces designed to contain them.
But she is not made of yielding things She is the daughter of the unbroken, the granddaughter of the defiant. And when they tell her to bow, she remembers the ones before her, the ones who refused.
She does not kneel.
There is an old story, whispered in hushed voices, that women have always carried the world. Not in the way of kings or generals, not with swords or crowns, but with something far more enduring.
It is women who hold up the sky when the weight of it crushes others.
It is women who bend over fields, hands buried in the earth, planting seeds they may never see bloom.
It is women who kneel by sickbeds, pressing damp cloths to fevered skin, whispering prayers even when there is no one left to answer them
It is women who stitch torn fabric, torn families, torn bodies, pressing thread through wounds and hoping they hold.
It is women who carry nations on their backs, who straighten their spines so others can stand.
And when those same nations forget, when they erase the women who built them, who nursed them, who lifted them from ruin, the women do not rage. They simply endure.
And they remember.
She has seen the world try to crush women before.
She has watched them silenced in the halls where their voices should have echoed She has seen them pushed out of rooms where decisions are made, erased from the very histories they shaped. She has read their names in books where their words were stolen, rewritten, diminished into footnotes beneath the achievements of men
And still, they rise.
Because they have always known what the world refuses to admit that power is not in domination, but in resilience. That endurance is its own kind of revolution That survival is a language spoken in generations, passed down from mother to daughter like an heirloom that cannot be lost.
She will not be the first to stand.
Nor will she be the last
Her spine is not just her own. It is the spine of the women who came before, the ones who walk beside her, the ones who will come after.
And so she straightens
She does not yield.
She does not kneel.
She stands.
And the world learns, once again, that a woman ’ s spine is stronger than anything built to break her.
Note from the Writer:
This honors resilience as inheritance, the quiet yet unbreakable strength passed through generations. Poetic Style: Prose Poetry
No longer quieting my thoughts to be digestible. Either you enjoy a hearty meal of rigorous words, or go find someone who speaks in terse & trite language, that suits your agenda & fills your journal. Soft words offer false narratives, but strong phrases carry true stories
What can I write about a woman, when she, herself, has written me birthing, nurturing, shaping my being, a force even the divine bows to?
Lovable only if I remained quiet and compliant, Unlovable if I became loud and defiant. When I began to voice bold truths, To tell of ways I’d been abused, When I began to refuse
To be anyone but myself, then I had to choose: Be who they want me to be and experience love. Or continue to be myself and risk being disposed of.
I chose freedom and truth and walked the lonely path Of un-learning and re-learning, all while facing their wrath. And don’t think it didn’t deeply pain me, But sometimes, that’s the price for being free, For leaning into who I was created to be, Eventually, finding people who love me for me–This made it all worth it.
Yet, I still carry the scars from all the years of striving to fit I simply was never made to be shoved into a box, I don’t care if, to you, I seem unorthodox, I will no longer deny the hurting child within, Or blame her for others’ sins. I will speak truth, wrapping her in my arms, Until others can also find a haven from the harm Experienced at the hands of those who were supposed to care. But were too weak to dare To speak out against abuse Or too obtuse.
To comprehend the depth of the wounds they caused Meanwhile, giving themselves a round of applause For their godliness, Leaving me to sort through the mess, Questioning my worth, Diminishing my hurt, Agonizing over whether or not I was wrong, Or if there is anywhere I can ever belong, Until finally realizing, all along, I am the one who has been strong, The one who now offers hope to others striving to break free, Fighting battles no one else will ever see, One who is deeply known and deeply loved, By the God up above Who cares about justice for the least of these, And the ones not looking to appease, Rather, standing boldly in the fight, Finding joy in bringing, to the dark places, a light.
Note from the Writer: "Finding Myself" showcases some of the challenges we, as women, face in finding ourselves and our place in the world This can be particularly challenging for those of us with bold personalities, who are often labeled "bitches" in a world where men are, at times, still seen as superior and resent strong women
Splatter delights judith his hair entwined in her fingers as she severs his head slowly felled by two beautiful feral and determined women armed with seduction and ice in their veins he feels his strength diminish as theirs grows their growls of pleasure echo in his ears
Note from the Writer:
I was inspired by Artemesia Gentileschi's Judith Beheading Holofernes There is a quiet rage and resolve in Judith's face as she ends Holofernes' reign of terror She's aided by her handmaiden And there's something so sinister and yet so satisfying about the painting It's two women taking back power
Cheryl Cantafio|@cherylc.writer
The soft movement of Artemisia’s hand covered the smallest parts of her canvas She already had a name for her painting: Mary Magdalene The name haunted her dreams and her fantasies from the first moment she painted the picture inside her mind
Mary, for she called the woman in her picture with that name, was pushing away a mirror Artemisia wished she had the same ability Her mirror was lying on her bed, abandoned but not forgotten
Years had passed since someone ’ s hands invaded her body, but the memory is still fresh The painting is still wet The colors merging reminded her of that unfortunate night when her body wasn’t her own for a while
She wanted to see herself in Mary Magdalene. Artemisia wanted to be Mary Magdalene. She wanted to be immortalized in a painting where no memories haunted her mind.
The many mirrors she broke never altered her image of herself. She still saw the same face that stared at her on the night she was sexually assaulted. Tainted with tears and having a hope of a smile, just to make sure she was still capable of smiling.
She wanted to paint that scene. Maybe she could transfer her pain into the painting instead. Maybe then she would stare at how she sees herself instead of how the mirror sees her.
Artemisia made sure that Mary Magdalene wore a yellow dress It was the same color she was wearing on that night, but it was different She wanted to remind herself that yellow existed before disasters; it existed in art
For weeks after that night, her brush didn’t choose yellow It always passed by it like she couldn’t see it, but it was shining brightly at her The color was calling her to embrace it and forget about the grudge she held
Artemisia looked at Mary again and then dipped one of her fingers in the small circle filled with yellow paint She brought the wet finger to Mary’s white dress and drew an X across her heart If she were to give herself a name like she gives her paintings, she would have chosen: The Woman with the Yellow Cross
The invading hands that touched all parts inside her that night never tainted her heart The yellow of that part of the dress was pure Her heart remained pure despite the darkness trying to seep into it And now, she was claiming it back
She didn’t want to say goodbye to Mary Magdalene Not yet The more time she spent drawing her, the more she felt like that night didn’t define her At first, Artemisia thought of naming the painting after herself, but she quickly changed her mind Her name was tainted, too, and Mary Magdalene was too pure a name It was a name that the devil didn’t know She started referring to that man as the devil because only a devil would have held such evils in his hands.
She spent her days and nights giving Mary Magdalene a life The movement of her brush felt like her hands were those of God as she created something that was her own She could make her smile or cry She could catch her in death or give her life She could make her pure, and dream that her mind would deceive itself and believe that she was pure too
The painting was left abandoned for a few weeks It only lacked one final brush before it could truly be finished, and Artemisia wasn’t ready to say goodbye. What will happen to her when Mary Magdalene is no longer waiting for her hands to breathe life into her? She could leave her signature at the bottom right corner of the canvas, but her name wouldn’t be enough to make her feel like she could own things. Sometimes she felt like she no longer owned her body.
Artemisia wanted to own Mary Magdalene. She wanted the invisible rope tying them together to never break. She wanted Mary Magdalene to carry her pain, and she couldn’t figure out how to do that exactly.
The yellow cross became a permanent feature on all of her dresses. It shone brightly just like the yellow of Mary Magdalene’s dress. Bright enough to eclipse that night when things didn’t make sense anymore. It always felt liberating to dip her finger slowly and witness its transformation into a yellow brush She always knew how to dip her finger deep enough to have just the right amount of paint to carry out her cross She liked having the ability to measure things She liked having power, and so she wasn’t ready to say goodbye to Mary Magdalene yet
Artemisia abandoned the unfinished painting and carried her mirror in place of her brush She didn’t recognize the woman looking back at her A small cry left her mouth when she looked and realized that Mary Magdalene wasn’t staring back at her
Instead, she was seeing the woman she was too afraid to paint Her tears made their way down her face as she looked at the reflection of her eyes She put two yellow crosses on the reflection of her eyes Maybe then she would be pure again
Mary Magdalene still yearned to have the final touch It needed to be finished, but how could Artemisia break this bond?
The weeks turned into years, and the yellow crosses made their way all over her mirrors And Mary Magdalene stood in the corner of the room, waiting to be given an ending
The decay Artemisia felt stopped when news reached her that her abuser was dead. Joy was a new feeling that she couldn’t remember experiencing. Joy felt like it would be yellow. It felt fitting. So the yellow crosses stopped appearing everywhere.
The next day, Artemisia sat in front of a new canvas and held a mirror in her left hand and a brush in her right hand. She looked at her reflection and let her brush capture her in a pause.
Once she drew herself in the same way she looked on that night. The same yellow dress and the same streaks of tears tainting her face. Once the mirror’s reflection was caught in the canvas, Artemisia pushed her mirror away.
She was no longer a woman who was defined by her being violated And so, she pushed her mirror away before heading over to Mary Magdalene to give her her own end
They came like thunder cracking through the dawn, Not one, but many woven storms reborn
Smoke in their veins, fire in their gaze, They didn’t ask permission. They razed.
Bones of the earth beneath their heels, They marched with silence sharper than steel
Lipstick like war paint, eyes lit with flame, History never dared speak their name
But they carved it anyway, into the bellies of mountains, into the throats of kings, into the hush of waiting rooms where power once held court.
They are the shouters, the weepers, the fists.
Mothers of riot. Lovers of risk.
Their laughter? A cannon. Their grief? A flood. Their fury, the reckoning of blood.
One held the sky up with bare, blistered hands, another tore borders with strands of her plans
They spun rebellion from kitchen chairs, sang freedom into soldiers’ prayers.
Not goddesses no. They bled like us. But every drop was luminous.
The Women not waiting. Not quiet. Not tame. Each one a poem too wild to name
P H O T O G R A P H Y & A R T
Note from the artist:
Women are central to art, yet often silenced. Through self-portraiture, I explore themes of eroticism, religion, and liberation by reclaiming suppressed voices. Leda & the Swan reimagines the myth of Leda and Zeus, challenging romanticized depictions The images reflect ambiguity Leda’s discomfort and agency, and the swan as both protector and ghost of violence.
digital mixed media collage, A4 print size, 2480 x 3508 pixels digital size, 2025
Dream digital mixed media collage, A4 print size, 2480 x 3508 pixels digital size, 2025
Note from the artist: My work explores the feminine through prisms of mythology and surrealism and seeks to juxtapose how we see the feminine looking at history, the current day, and the mirror.
S P E C I A L A D D I T I O N S
By: Lola Braut
Our very own Editor-in-Chief, Jhazzy Jhane, is back with her third poetry collection, infinite ways to burn, which dropped May 4, 2025. I had the honour of reading it early, and it’s nothing short of powerful, raw, lyrical, and deeply human. I’ve linked her previous work below make time for it. She’s got something to say, and you’ll want to hear it.
Jhane’s infinite ways to burn isn’t just a collection of poetry, it's a scorched map of love, loss, memory, and survival. Every page feels like skin meeting flame, blistering with pain, healing with grace, and smoking with a quiet, dignified rage. It’s about the fire that chars, the fire that warms, and the fire a woman walks through and emerges from stronger, more unfiltered, unrepentantly herself.
This book feels like sitting at a kitchen table with a woman who has seen too much and still dares to sing. It’s Las Vegas heat turned into metaphor, as in “tempting fate”:
“it seldom rains. the city could set itself on fire. i’ve watched it try... sometimes, i wish to burn with it.”
That’s not just a line it’s a punch to the chest Vegas isn’t just a place here, it’s a character. Home and exile. Origin and wound.
There’s a relentless honesty in poems like “black and blue” and “ rage, ” which tackle domestic violence with devastating precision:
“he wore a mask so convincing / you believed every fib he whispered in your ear ” - “black and blue”
“ my face was your canvas / my keys were your paintbrush”“ rage ”
These aren’t just stories, they’re confessions soaked in blood, memory, and sorrow. There’s no euphemism, no artistic sidestep. Just truth, standing naked and bruised. These poems reminded me of Warsan Shire’s piercing lyricism or Sylvia Plath’s confessional burn.
What stunned me most was the duality, how love is both tender and treacherous. In “burning”:
“i am a candle burning for you / though you are not here / to appreciate my. fragrance / because you love another”
And then there’s the haunting vulnerability of “ a closer look”:
“underneath, i’m a pile of filthy wreckage / you’ll wish you’d never touched.”
The ache of being known-truly known-and fearing it’ll drive people away. That’s not just poetry, that’s therapy inked on paper
But this isn’t a book that leaves you in despair. There’s a gritty kind of healing here, too. The final pieces, especially “into the fire” and “this is me ” , are reclamations. They strip off shame, rebuild dignity, and plant a flag: “I survived. And I remember.”
“i toss the version of her / who crawls on all fours / for crumbs of love… / oh, darling, / you won’t be missed, / but you will be mourned.”
If you ’ ve ever loved someone who didn’t love you back, stayed too long in a burning room, or tried to find your reflection in someone else’s eyes, this book will see you. It’ll hurt, but it’ll also remind you that you are not alone in the fire. And like Jhane, you can and will walk through it. infinite ways to burn is a mirror, an inferno, a diary soaked in tears and gasoline. Read it slowly. Read it when you ’ re ready. Then read it again when you ’ ve begun to heal.
Buy infinite ways to burn: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DYJDY2SH
All other links: https://linktr.ee/jj1998
By: Jhazzmyn Joiner
I, Jhazzy Jhane, had the pleasure of interviewing my good friend, Kae. Kae is a 27year-old creative and mother of two. She was born in Maryland and raised in Atlanta. She is an artist in many forms and has been since she was a child Kae said, “Creativity isn’t just a hobby or a pastime. It’s all elements of life wrapped in one. ” Our conversation was a deep dive into the heart of that creativity, and I’m excited to share it with you.
Q: Can you tell us a little about yourself and your journey into music, songwriting, and poetry?
A: My creative journey started with music. I picked up the violin in 3rd grade and the saxophone in 4th grade. I was a 1st chair violinist throughout middle school, which shaped a lot of my discipline and love for music early on. Around that time, I started to dabble in the cello By the time high school rolled around, I got way more serious about it. Around fifteen, I taught myself guitar and started to dabble in piano out of curiosity about the sound.
I think I started writing music in middle school. A few friends wanted to start a musical group I was mainly a rapper in the group At some point, my stepdad, who is a very talented singer, helped me write a song for the group. After that, songwriting came naturally to me. It just sort of clicked. Poetry became an extension of that. I realized that, sometimes, I felt restricted by melodies, and that's where my poetry was born.
Singing didn't come into the picture until high school, when I was thrown into choir. I honestly never thought about singing before then. During section placement, my choir director, Mama Williams, heard me and told me I had a beautiful voice. She encouraged me to step into that space, and I've been singing ever since.
I also started to doodle a little bit over the years. I don’t think I’m very good at it, but I enjoy it. I see it as another avenue to express myself. Overall, the arts have played a huge part in how I navigate through the world. It's how I tell my story.
Q: Thank you so much for sharing this. These are things that I didn’t even know, and I’ve known you for a while. Can you talk a bit more about being thrown into the chorus? Give us some context there.
A: Sure. I got my schedule on the first day of school, and the chorus was on there. My advisor would not change it unless my mom wrote a note, and, at the time, she wasn't able to give me one.
Q: Were there particular artists visual, musical, or literary who first inspired you to create?
A: Of course! Growing up, Missy Elliott, Left-Eye, and Aaliyah were huge inspirations to me Honestly, I think Missy Elliott is one of the most slept-on creatives of our lifetime. Her songwriting, her production, even her music videos were years ahead of her time. Left-Eye is another artist I admire deeply. Her lyricism is unmatched. Her Supernova album really taught me the importance of authenticity at an early age. Even when it isn’t supported.
And then there’s Aaliyah. Everything about her had a beautiful and effortless essence to me. I grew up listening to her, and even beyond the music, she's been a strong influence I loved her fashion sense, and a lot of my style choices draw inspiration from her. I even named my daughter, Journey, after her rendition of “Journey to the Past.”
Even though Left-Eye and Aaliyah passed away so young, their music still sounds current to me. There’s something timeless about both of them that I admire.
When it comes to writers, Zora Neale Hurston is my favorite. Their Eyes Were Watching God is hands down my favorite book Her storytelling is so vivid As for poetry, Rumi’s writing has always stood out to me. The way they capture love, loss, longing, and growth so beautifully is something I aspire to do one day.
Visually, I’ve always been drawn to Van Gogh. You can feel his pain and emotion through his work.
Q: Thank you for that. So many great artists you mentioned. I love Aaliyah. As you know, my dad almost named me after her. At Three Panels Press, we explore the connection between art and literature. How has visual art influenced your songwriting and/or poetry?
A: I remember you saying that about your dad almost naming you Aaliyah.
Honestly, I see art everywhere. Not just in museums or on canvases, but in people, on buildings, in storms, and in stillness, too. I think God is the greatest artist of all. The way the clouds move, the way flowers bloom in the most unlikely places, the way a child laughs... All of this is visual poetry to me.
Emotion opens my eyes to art in other ways When I feel, sometimes, I think I'm able to see art in things I would've missed otherwise. Like when I care about a person, I notice the way they smile. The way the sun reflects off their skin. The way their energy fills a room without them even trying. That kind of beauty finds its way into my writing. Not just to be described, but to be felt.
Even my tattoos hold visual meaning that influences my creative process. For example, I have a lotus on my wrist, a reminder of growth despite what I've been through. It grounds me in a survivor's mindset when I write
So when I think of visual art, it's not just paintings or drawings. It’s everything that makes me stop, look, and feel. It's God's work. It’s architecture. It’s love. It’s resilience, and it shapes my songwriting and poetry. PAGE 37
Q: Beautifully said. Can you share an experience where a work of visual art sparked a song, a poem, or another creative project for you?
A: I don’t think I’ve ever written a piece based on a specific painting or gallery piece, but visual inspiration is still a huge part of my process. There have been times when someone I loved could just look at me the right way, and that would inspire me to pick up my pen. That look became a whole song or poem. So, I don’t have something tied to a specific artwork, but I’m always paying attention to what life puts in front of me.
Q: Your work crosses multiple disciplines. How do you decide what form a piece will take, whether it becomes a song, a poem, or something else?
A: I don’t think I always decide. Sometimes I'll be writing a song and realize that it’s strong enough to stand without a melody. Sometimes I'll be writing a poem and feel the beat it needs to be on. For me, it's less about choosing and more about respecting the feelings that come.
Q: Nice. Do you find that music and poetry feed each other in your creative process, or do they exist separately for you?
A: They feed each other for sure. Sometimes I'll write lines and realize they’d make a perfect hook. Other times, I’ll be writing a song and realize it might be better as a poem. It’s all connected.
Q: How important is historical or cultural context when you engage with or create art?
A: I wrote a poem called Soul Tie that leans into connecting historical context to current spaces. It’s about a love that travels across lifetimes. The kind of connection that feels familiar, like "something ancient in me recognized something ancient in you. ” In the poem, I imagine myself and the other person as Cleopatra and Marc Antony in one life, Sappho and her muse in another, and even as lovers from opposing tribes who were killed for their forbidden love. I wanted to channel the tragedy of those stories and express the idea of being separated by forces bigger than you, but being hopeful even when the timing of life isn't right. I feel that history helps me build on things I feel in this life. History provides language and experiences that will help people connect to my work.
Q: Love this. I remember reading that piece and thinking it was amazing. Are there recurring themes or emotions that you find yourself returning to in your work?
A: Thank you! Love, intimacy, and connection are the center of almost everything I write. I’m a very tender person, and I feel things deeply. I think it's one of my greatest strengths. I think the way we as humans experience each other is one of the most important things in life. A lot of my writing dances between love, sex, and vulnerability. I think there is something beautiful about being seen, understood, and being held without judgment. It’s about experiencing someone ' s soul, not their body.
Q: How does your identity influence the stories and emotions you explore through your art?
A: I am a Black woman. I am a mother. These titles mean carrying strength, softness, history, the future, resilience, and beauty all at once. Effortlessly. Being Black in America taught me how to be strong, but motherhood taught me the importance of tenderness. I think my art reflects that balance. Strength and softness can coexist in one being I hope to be a voice for the women who were silenced before me and possibly a voice of inspiration for the Black voices that will come after me.
Q: What role does collaboration—between art forms or between artists play in your practice?
A: Collaboration is all about connection. As I’ve mentioned, human connection is everything to me. I love creating with others because it allows me to experience their energy. I think art becomes so powerful when it’s shared.
Q: I agree. Collaboration is beautiful. What advice would you give to artists and writers who are looking to build bridges between different mediums?
A: Stay true to you. Expression doesn’t belong in a box. Whatever you feel is ok However you express it, is ok Even if it's not perfect, it's ok When you see a sound or hear a color, it only has to make sense to you. As long as it's authentic, it's beautiful. Don't let the fear of judgment keep you from releasing what's in your heart.
Q: Beautiful. Thank you for that. Can you share what you ’ re currently working on, or any upcoming projects we can look out for?
A: Absolutely. Right now, I’m working on a poetry collection with the amazingly talented Jhane. I’m also diving into a few music projects. One that I’m especially excited about is an album called Don’t Box Me In. I’m collaborating with artists like Martize, AshtonParker, and Sin City Records, just to name a few. I’m proud of the music we ’ re creating together, and I can’t wait to share it with the world
Q: I am so excited to be working on all of the things with you! Finally, I always ask this question: Why are art and its history important?
A: Art is how we remember. History gives facts, but art gives emotion, and to me, both are equally important when it comes to teaching new generations Art is how we connect not only to ourselves, but to our ancestors. Art and its history are important because they show that even amid a storm, we can create something beautiful.
Kae’s journey reminds us that art is more than a form of expression. It’s a lifeline, a mirror, and a bridge between generations. Her work lives at the intersection of vulnerability and strength, tradition and innovation, pain and beauty. Whether through poetry, music, or quiet reflection, Kae continues to create from a place of deep truth. And in doing so, she not only tells her story but invites us all to reflect on our own Give Kae a follow: https://www.instagram.com/so.emotional/.
