I am not I and I am not you. Laughter sounds different when my lips are braced shut. The concept of “I” stuck in my throat while I wash in your peel. Surrounded. Stranger beneath stranger ceilings. Mourning past as comfort. Remembering then wasn’t safe either. Remembering memory as a synonym for home. Detached, clenched, hovering within the shell of my forehead - spiralling into colours - making sense of it all. Oil on canvas | 100 x 100cm | 2019
