There was a time when my bed was the only place that made me feel safe. My bed was the antidote to the madness that surrounded me. I could go to bed and dream my way out of the chaos. I could go wherever I wanted. I could lie in bed and feel secure, watch TV, read or just be in my "assigned" space.
All of that changed in 2020 when the COVID-19 pandemic took over the world. It was the rudest awakening of the illusion I had created. The pandemic made me realize that my bed was never really my space. I was moved from room to room, never allowed to truly social distance or shelter in place. Despair took over, and the reality set in that I had no control over my own safety or wellbeing. My bed was no longer safe; it had belonged to the state all along.
Through pencil work, I express the dullness of prison during my twenty-eight years of incarceration. In contrast, the brightness and beauty I see through my soul is expressed with the use of watercolor and glitter—releasing the heavy weight off my mind and spirit.
This artwork was commissioned for the Empowerment Avenue exhibition The Only Door I Can Open: Women Exposing Prison Through Art and Poetry
