Some things begin with every intention of surviving.
Some things don’t.

This piece feels like the aftermath of trying to hold onto something long after it already started slipping through my hands. The scraped passages, drips, interruptions, and violent dark X all feel like evidence of something being crossed out in real time, memory, certainty, relationship, identity, I don’t even know anymore.

The hot color underneath still fights to be seen, which honestly feels true to life too. Even grief has electricity in it sometimes.

There’s tension here between chaos and restraint that I didn’t fully understand while making it. Parts feel architectural and held together. Other parts feel completely eroded. Like thoughts unraveling mid-sentence. Like trying to journal through heartbreak while rainwater runs the ink down the page.

It wasn’t supposed to last.
But it mattered anyway.