There are things we don’t say.
Urges we hold inside — too red, too vivid, too raw to entrust to words.

So she closes her eyes.
She breathes.
And behind her closed eyelids, the flowers emerge.

They bloom without permission, carried by color, texture, and trace.
Each petal seems to say:
“I am here. Even if you never knew how to name me.”

The dove watches over.
The hummingbirds dance — swift, free, almost unreal.
They ask no questions.
They sip what simply is.

On the skin, in the textures, in the spontaneous marks of paint — those raw, instinctive gestures we call mark-making — we feel the unfiltered movement, the controlled release, the trembling of someone who dares to reveal herself unarmored.