I don’t hide my wounds, I let them seep onto the canvas until they’re soaked in colour, until the raw ache settles into a rhythm of brushstrokes that feels like a pulse. Pain is the spark that forces the pigment to burn, and the burn becomes a depth of feeling you can see and touch. Every scar becomes a line, every sting a splash of light, and in that messy, messy honesty something beautiful is born.