the glimpses of colors through the tiny window in that basement were so light and fragile. i tried killing myself thinking this was the only way out of the wheels of abuse. i didn't succeed. in the hospital when i thought about killing him instead of myself i dreamt of my hands strangulating him, instead of his, on my neck; like it actually happened. the poetic words of humanity have no ending or beginning when it comes to explaining the feelings of belonging to no thought and all the same; at once. in the confinements of four walls , a big window and an equally bipolar/depressed person at the hospital.
i always wanted to make big painting of the victorious scars. today I'm neither ready or sure how i feel about it. but when i made these pictures, i took them out of my system, and i don't dream of my own death, i still hope he burns though. he broke my paintings and my hopes, he isolated from happiness and light; he brought to tears my own existence, crumbled and shaking, he disfigured my face, gave me a shaking jaw and bald spots all over my head; several nervous breakdowns, panic and incontinence for months after i broke it off.
my fire, though different now. never left.