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Someone says I’m lucky it wasn’t worse.

I smile the way I was taught to.

I don’t say luck never touched me.

My mother stitched me from fear and disappointment.

My mother left zippers all over me.

I keep trying to unzip myself…

but all I find is blood and bone and apology.

Sometimes I’m back in the hospital. Seven years old. Alone.

I thought being sick might bring her back.

I still want to be held by the hands that broke me.

But I keep going.

I keep sewing myself together.

I’m learning.

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"Death" - Louie Alexander 2025

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not all belief is written.

some of it is drawn into the dirt with a stick. some is hummed softly while hands move. some is passed from one body to another, without ever needing to be explained.

art has always been a way of holding belief. not proving it. not explaining it. just… holding it.

in colour that means something. in patterns that remember. in gestures that were made long before us.

it’s the carved edge of a tool. a wall marked with ash. a song you don’t know the words to, but still carry in your chest.

belief doesn’t have to be loud. it can just be there — inside the making.

and maybe that’s the oldest kind of prayer. the quiet kind. the kind we do with our hands.

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