Created in conjunction with the performance accumulation: focet [sic], this blood was collected at the brink of an anniversary of rape. In the weeks leading up to the date, I became consumed with the question: what would happen when I slipped from a majority non-raped person to a minority? I felt compelled to gather evidence that I existed, that I would continue to exist.

In the process of collecting blood from each thigh, just before and just after the clock struck the time, I realized that question in and of itself lives in an essentialist space I don’t otherwise entertain. There was no need to gather proof of life, but, jarred now, its purpose is to remind. The blood is different, and it is the same. The vials are indistinguishable, even to me.