there are scatters of grief buried under my memories,micro doses of frear crawling through my breath though, i have always sounded fearless.but what does a disobediant child become when there is no more fight to fight? what is left of the unruly when they are no linger ruled?i have found myself lost in the way of creating as i, for maybe the first time had to create without it being an inherent act of defiance. what is my expression if not a grasp for my right to express?it feels like my body is left with holes, one's that carry themselves with an unbearable heaviness.thecavities go through me making my hardly realised body meaningless,what is my body if not a mass of resistance?lately i am faced with how images do not correlate the same in most peoples minds.how ther redness of wine does not resemble a bloody back.how a breeze on the skin doesn't have a hovering shiver of fear even if it's often followed by bravery.