i am a still life. i am a potted flower desperately bending to any sunlight, including your own. i am the water that dies through breath. i am the breathing, bold discussion on how art is useless but so are we. i am we trying to not try to spend the day in bed. i am the bed, recalling what what it was to hold ambitious dreams. i am the dream of pablo that sleeps within me wildly, changing consumingly. i am hungry. i am rarely satisfied. i am eating you whole, your gentle growth. i am drizzled by the life between your arms, your legs, the sweat soaking your hair to my back. i am the whip of my dad in childhood. i am that good childhood bringing you to your knees. I am scraps. i am hardened, scabby blood. i am a battle spilled by men spilling. i am a woman. i am a birth again when i instill this life – repeat it, repeat it, drip it raw – with meaning, which is to mean you, which is to not be mean to you, but nice like a brushstroke senselessly free on a canvas to give the life of lives to the living.