INSIGHT: Emergence
DRAWING BLOOD Hannah Bailey
The room is bare, my footsteps echo off the hollow walls. I sit before the window – thin film separating me from endless possibility. I reach out to touch the view, today, a little too hard; a little too curiously I press and press into my faded reflection until it shatters around me, leaving the wind suspended and gaping. I fall among the broken shards, scattering my limbs across a field of small knives. So numb from the whirring of the world that at first I do not feel wet lesions running over my spine. I wrinkle, the craters filling with crimson ink. Emerging from the glassy bed, I push the broken pieces together into a pile on the floor, leaving a space for my cross-legged form to nestle quietly amidst the ruined hope. I finger the sharp edges, feeling the weight of each heavy through my fragile bones. I close my fist tight. The glass forges shallow pits along the planes of my palms, drawing from each lifeline the mud of endurance. I begin, gathering the small prisms into unlikely pairs, sorting joy with sorrow, anguish with laughter; 40 | www.fokus.org
