i’m a survivor of many forms of abuse. every survivor’s healing process varies, but mine has always involved building my own pyres in order to burn down false narratives and harmful frameworks constructed to protect my abusers and blockade both memories and their associated pain. time and time again i have lit the frameworks and constructs i built around myself on fire, sifting through the ashes of my former selves in hopes of finding the truths born from each burning. my healing process is one that requires burnt offerings of self, and is full of gore, not glory. it is messy, full of decomposing pulpy bits, the stench of it is often pungent. the only way i’ve been able to navigate the pain is by plunging my fists deep into every wound to locate their origin. i also must bear the feelings that arise throughout this process which is terrifying. it involves swallowing a measure of courage and embracing another descent into hell every time i strike the match.

the pressures and horrors i ate and compacted within obediently for years until they burst from my innermost recesses like dough escaping a vacuum sealed can; i’ve exorcized them in therapy but sometimes the memories are clammy like the insides of my palms when i used to sit suspended under swells of anger, bracing for impact. time creates a buffer between me and the physicality of such emotional distress, but i suspect traces of it will always linger as a permanent imprint. it’s not just my body that’s kept the score.

red oxide. yellow ochre. sandbank. anthraquinone blue. burnt sienna. titan buff. titan mars pale. light portrait pink. light apricot. venetian red. indian yellow hue. mars black. baked clay. atmospheric. breathless. sangria. azurite hue. mars orange. yellow oxide. teal. naples yellow. blue red deep. celadon. raw sienna. dioxazine purple. as i rub the colors on my hands or brush them across a canvas, the movement and sensory input transport me back to who i was and what filled me with joy i hid deep within my body out of fear. albuquerque in october was my favorite time of year; the season remains imprinted upon my subconscious all these years later. i remember the excitement of running out to the playground with my classmates and teachers in october to try and count what seemed like thousands of hot air balloons dotting the midmorning sky with their bright colors. this visually mesmerizing sight filled me with wonderment from my toes to the tips of my ponytails. i also remember sitting very still in the back of the car but straining my eyes to look out the window and take in all the balloons in the distance. the car window back then was a portal for my imagination and watching those hot air balloons as they burned color into the sky made it easier for me to envision myself floating away in one towards freedom; i’d picture myself in the basket, warming myself on the heat of the flame, my eyes fixed on the horizon in front of me. looking out the window and up at the sky while in the car was like looking over the threshold of another world i wanted to belong to. when paired with the mountains, clay-colored stucco buildings, deep-blue sky, hot pink and orange sunrises, green cacti and yucca flowers, and sandy-colored ground, the festive colors of the balloons painted enrapturing visuals that were a sensory relief from my reality.

pain, grief, retrograde, squaring planets, one horror making conjunction to another and then another. life lately feels like an open flesh wound you can see the rhythm of each pump of the heart oozing through. like sticky pulp. like a strange relationship. like we’re experiencing multiple dimensions and inceptions simultaneously. like past life regressions and future reclamations.