A velvet set of pumps and a handbag trimmed with rabbit fur, embroidered with hundreds of beads that create the illusion of moldy gilt. What may appear prestigious and luxurious, delightful to the eye, is on the inside toxic and rotten. I find myself in such a cold environment far too often — suffering panic attacks, outbursts of rage and tears; I am frustrated and exhausted. But from every patch of mold, I want to scrape out even the last fragment of beauty. I voluntarily keep every pain frozen inside me and keep moving forward. I collapse from exhaustion, yet despite illness and infection I keep adding bead after bead to each strand of fur, building my mosaic of pain. I scream for help, but I am happy; I love that burgeoning organism.
