The Moonlit Room Opens
For paid subscribers: memoir out-takes, forbidden pages, hot takes, live music, and the first shimmer of my harp songs before they enter the world.
Beloveds,
There is a room behind the room.
A blue-lit chamber. A foxglove threshold. A place where the pages I cut from the book still breathe in a silver bowl, where the songs arrive barefoot, where the truth takes off its mask and laughs with its mouth full of stars.
I am opening that room here!
For paid subscribers of my substack, I’ll be sharing the work that lives closest to the bone: the out-takes from my memoir, the passages too strange, too intimate, too unruly, or too alive to disappear quietly into the archive. These are the fragments with teeth. The scenes that still haunt the soles of my feet. The small revelations, the backstage griefs, the shimmering mistakes, the pages I could not bury because they kept singing from underground.
Additionally, if you become a paid patron, you will also receive my spicy romantasy offerings: myth-drenched, desire-lit pieces where lovers meet at the edge of prophecy, where mouths become spells, where the body is not a problem to solve but a temple full of wet storms. Expect longing. Expect heat. Expect moonlight on armor, velvet in the throat, and the kind of kiss that changes the laws of the kingdom. She’s Sapphic, okay.
Paid subscribers will also be invited closer to my live music world: behind-the-scenes notes from writing and recording my music, field reports from the altar of strings, fragments from the subway, the little omens that gather before a song is sung in public. I’ll also go live and sing you some lullabies. I’ll take requests for songs you would like me to write. I want you there with me in the hush before the first note, in the afterglow when the room is still ringing.
And perhaps most tenderly, you will receive first access to my harp music.
Before the songs are released, before they are named by the world, they will come here first. Harp sketches. Voice memos. Studio glimpses. Songs that came through grief, through prayer, through the old golden door beneath the ribs.
Think of this paid space as a hidden garden at midnight.
A place for the truer draft.
The wilder sentence.
The uncensored shimmer.
The harp string still warm from my hand.
The story before it becomes official history.
And you’ll be supporting a broke ass b doing her best! Love you for that!
Thank you for being here, for reading me not only as a writer but as a human who wants to connect, a spellcaster, a witness, a queerdo sea slug making art from the beautiful wreckage and the myth beneath it.
Come closer.
The moon has left a key beneath the stone.
With love and lightning,
Sia
I wore my crown of ash and teeth,
and smiled through every curse;
they called me “bride” and offered gold—
I made the bargain worse.
My heart is strong,
my throne is charred and
i am bored;
come kneel, sweet fool, and kiss the flame—
I’m your Firelord.
I do not hoard my lovers, no,
I simply keep what burns;
send knights, send priests, send pretty kings—
none of them return.
bring me wine, or bring me war,
I’m dreadful
when ignored;
you wanted heat, you summoned me—
I’m your Firelord.