“I AM NOT BROKEN” is scrawled on the pristine gallery wall, with burnt charcoal sticks.

Small groups of audience members enter the gallery space—time-based visits.

Each person is masked and sanitized.

Using my own body to devise glitched choreographed movements and looped actions, I offer a visceral, heartfelt moment to think about how the pandemic has failed disabled and vulnerable people.

I lay on a bed of iron, rusty and bare.

I place honey-embalmed sunflowers on my closed eyes.

It smells of blood and sweetness.

I lay on the wire frame for hours.

I rocked my right foot, my stimming actions.

I dug in my heels into gaps of the wire frame.

The bed creaks and clashes, each reverb sound ranges from soft gentle to loud rage.

This action is repeated throughout the day with different rhythms and pace.

New groups of audience members trickle into the site.

With each repetition the sunflowers are renewed.

Used flowers form a honey-soaked line across the concrete floor: a field without soil.