Yesterday, I watched Frida Kahlo paint a masterpiece.
Tomorrow, I will be born.
My mother died before I was a woman.
My son is my father.
My hair grows upwards.
My fears root themselves in my feet
And my cycles are counter clockwise to the moon.
I can’t please you, you’re just a pile of bones.
Right now you hold the breath of life and forget what you are up to.
While you’re running late to your wake,
I stopped the ticking clock,
Peeled back the sky,
Slumbered in the grave,
And bore the first starlight.