TW: Self Harm

Painting

I didn’t sleep today, and my roommate was snoring like a tractor, and they woke me up early to take my blood. I felt my mood dip, a volcano of emotions waiting to erupt. I can’t define them. But it almost felt like the breaking of the ocean dashing into white form but my mind was black. My lacrimal glands begin to secrete and I rush to the bathroom. I lock the door and slide down the wall as you see in the movies… till my body hits the ground. I remember the first time I started painting, I crashed the glass to the ground and picked up a piece and began my first artwork. The first time was painful, but the pain of this piece mixed with the sorrow in my heart nudged me to continue. I hated the artwork, it looked like a mess and clearly, I wasn’t a good painter. The thoughts crept in today, I wanted to paint, I wanted to fix what I had messed up before, I wanted the piercing sensation of my hand crashing onto the mirror, and the pleasure of the blood flowing down my fingers. I wanted the adrenaline of punching a wall, to look at the holes in my hands and let the scars define my artwork. I wanted to fix what was broken inside, and the only way I knew how, was to break anything, even if it meant breaking myself.

~ Shantey Moabelo