|I am a sinner saved by grace. That about covers it.|
ShulkI have to shut my eyes to keep the monster in.Shulk by PaintingSaint
It’s late morning, and I grip the sides of the sink. I try to pace my breath, inhaling and exhaling in ragged rhythm, and pressing my forehead against the cool of the marble. My blood is pumping fast, and my brain sending warnings throughout my body – my muscles to not let go, my lungs to keep going, and my eyes to stay shut, no matter how much it aches.
Last month, they opened too soon, revealing a startling shade of green – followed by an inhuman scream clawing its way out of my chest. Rage burned through my consciousness like battery acid, and I remembered grabbing the mirror with green hands before blacking out. The nine o’clock news and the acrid stench of smoke filled in the rest.
“You have so much power,” my psychiatrist whispered to me later at the hospital. “So much power.”
Horror is what created me, and horror is what keeps me going every day.
The Sylvia Plath EffectThe electro-shocks of strangeThe Sylvia Plath Effect by PaintingSaint
That pulsed through your brain
Now pulses through ours:
We the mad, we lonely women,
Who cannot write with our real names,
Nor cry with our own eyes,
But must curse our crazed fate in verse,
Until an asylum’s hearse carries us
Away in the thickening of night.
No breath, no light for our words and thoughts,
Which lie orphaned in our dresser drawers.
Unless we refuse to dance in an electric trance,
And claw our way out of the grave
That you dug for us in days of yore.
The Ignis Fatuus of the Camera LenseWhat do I do?The Ignis Fatuus of the Camera Lense by PaintingSaint
Light cannot be caught round my fingers
In a cat’s cradle. My eyes cannot draw
A Titian maid onto paper, and my warbles
Strangle the spectrum of sound.
Fingers fumble and stumble across piano keys,
And there are no magazine covers to frame my face.
I have not lost what cannot be found.
All of glory crowns the painting, singing pauper, and glows
As he withers. Dust to dust, but the gold remains,
While his name becomes a whisper.
And I shall stay and watch the ways
His bones become a river.
Soft! But count and mourn the days
You spend searching for treasure –
For you cannot lose what cannot be found.