When I began, it was paint. When I was young, a pencil and pen. Lines and shades would fill each corner of each page of each sketchbook. It would create and observe and imagine.
Then it was words.
Quotes that would cloud my mind that were spat in disgust that I had carved into my flesh. It was poetry yet I hadn’t realised it. Then I began to heal physically and repressed the words that were said, and the things that were spat.
I addressed my self loath. I emptied myself in the hope that I would gain a letter. ABC it didn’t matter. I needed the healing. I was called brave but I was just selfish. Making art about the things I had tried to forget but could not.
Then I had the choice.
I became strong. A fire fuelled me to create. The news and the media and the hate that was not to myself had empowered me more than the things I had experienced first hand.I addressed the things that my family experienced. That my skin defined me as. Spices and scents and layers upon layers of
Now I am talking. I am not making but I am writing. Still creating but differently.
This is now