I dip one finger in, just past the nail bed and lift it slowly allowing the yellow paint to drip back into its receptacle. I gingerly aim my finger at the canvas and flick. The acrylic lands with a satisfying sound like the first sprinkles of rain and I dip my fingers in again.

My hands go down and up into different colors and ginger flicks have graduated to handfuls of liquid thunking on the mat.

I’m flinging paint in passionate whirls oblivious to the furniture, the walls the floor. My breath is heavy. I’m covered in color and all of my emotions are there on the canvas. Visible and raw.

I lay down in the mess and hug the painting to my chest, finally finding myself whole again.