An exploration of narrative, how Cleopatra Boudreau shows her readers poetic vulnerability through the acceptance of life's ever changing circumstances.
About the Artwork:
ten/ten/one is a mini-anthology of poems exploring the life of a young woman re-discovering her experiences through fragments of reality. The words speak to feelings of self-awareness, and the raw vulnerability that comes with the difficult process of acceptance and understanding the weighted moments that make us who we are. From traumatizing grievances, to broken relationships - this series finds hope in unexpected ways.
About the Artist:
Cleopatra Boudreau is a writer, actor and creator is a Toronto who now studies in Montreal. Her writing comes from personal experiences that are rich in emotional depth and encapsulate a moment in time. She aims to tell stories of women that we may have never met before.
(I)
I felt I had only slept for a breath when I woke up tender and raw. My muscles felt like plucked strings, and my insides as though there was a snake ripping through them.
As it forced its way into my lungs
it split and conquered every limb and bloodstream.
My goose bumps prickled.
Not long after
I found the broken skin within me.
The same wounds that would last for a week on my body
and permanently in my humanity.
I remember wondering – is this being alive? It 16 months to tell my mother,
my best friend.
I was gasping for air and sinking into my own denial.
She asked me why?
Why couldn’t I stop slurping down my anguish from a bottle?
Why were my legs constantly expanded?
I attempted to explain.
Wrapped up in my own endless baggage,
I can not emancipate myself.
I still have not told my father.
I probably never will.
It has taken me 20 months to accept that this is who I am now.
For so long,
the weight
the constant weight of hatred and suppression
turned me into a shadow of myself.
I commit to absolving doubt from within myself,
but regarding forgiveness,
I make no promises.
(II)
Sunshine caresses haunt
my drizzling morning,
and I sip it in.
Rumbles from beyond my window. Rumbles from within.
July was better with you.
(III)
Worshipping expression beyond humanity by
hiding in the caverns of individuality.
Do not forget we need connection to survive.
Artistic growth is nothing without the generosity of loving hands
passing it on.
To what do we owe creation?
Not only the developed mind of an artist,
but the scars and kisses left behind.
Whispers of creases in time are the true writers of every piece I’ve imagined.