This Is a Painting

Author Note

I began writing this piece as an experiment in absurdity. I knew I wanted to write something that felt like one big, calculated risk. I imagine that for some readers the ending will be limp and underwhelming, and this was a purposeful choice on my part. I chose to write about the quiet violence of mundanity in the aftermath of assault, and about the audacious idea that trauma has innate meaning. I chose to write about guilt, shame, the performance of the “self.” More than anything, I chose to write about my girlhood. I’m grateful to anyone to reads it.