This piece came from a moment when holding it together stopped being honest.

There’s a rupture running through the center, not loud, not chaotic, just final. The kind of break that doesn’t ask permission and doesn’t explain itself. It marks the place where something inside me split because it had to, not because I wanted it to.

The layers around it are heavy on purpose. They carry what came before, the weight of endurance, memory, and trying to stay intact longer than was healthy. The white shapes aren’t answers. They’re pauses. Small moments of breath when I could still stay present without fixing anything.

The orange refuses to soften. It doesn’t blend. It interrupts. It’s the truth that wouldn’t stay buried anymore.

Rupture isn’t about destruction. It’s about clarity. About the moment integrity requires separation, even when the cost is high.

Some breaks aren’t failures.
They’re the beginning of telling the truth.