BUTCHERY

I did not paint this.
I butchered it out of my own festering remains. 
Under a ceiling blackened by the smoke of my own burning mind, I plunged my hands into the rancid, clotted muck that once pulsed as my soul.

My nails shredded the canvas like claws scraping through rotten meat.
I worked not with intend, but with the primal spasms of something already half dead, vomiting what little was left of me onto the trembling frame.

The color? It is not red. It is the bile-soaked blood from a gut torn open by years of silent screaming. 
It reeks of decomposition.
Of betrayal.
Of dreams left to fester like maggots in a

dead man´s mouth.

I lost all sense of self.
I became the carcass.
The flies.
The stench rising from a soul so putrid it could no longer rot fast enough.

The textures you see?
They are lacerations, ripped by invisible whips.
Every lash a broken promise, every gauge a memory so foul it blistered my mind.

In my delirium, I could smell the pus of my own MADNESS seeping through cracked skin.
My fingertips sank into layers of coagulated horror, clawing deeper and deeper, desperate to strip away the filth clinging to the last tattered scraps of who I used to be.

This is not a painting.
It is a slaughterhouse.
It is a corpse, twitching still, grinning with broken teeth.

Whoever looks upon this canvas looks into the bloated belly of despair.
The ruptured guts of what once dared to hope.

Touch it. And feel the slime of my disintegration on your hands.
This is the stink of a soul that has been skinned alive and left in the dirt to rot and howl.

This work is not owned.
It is survived.