Judge me. Recite for me the intricate outlines, the weaving inwards of who I am. Tell me why I am, tell me why I see flowers falling from the sky when it rains. Tell me why I listen for footsteps outside empty doors outside suburban houses. Tell me I have more to offer, tell me my offering will always be too slender, too starved, too bone-bearing. Tell me that the waves receding in my consciousness are something I convinced myself of, being a water sign. Tell me I am coming closer to humanness, to the art of being something at all in a world of darkness, when I am naked. Tell me blossoming out of me is a redness that is tender enough to move people to speak for me but warn me that everyone will speak wrongly. Ruin me with feathered kisses and campgrounds left to rot after a decade of trying to remember where it once was we burned the marshmallows late in the afternoon heat. Remind me I have heat in me. Judge me. Take a photograph of me and zoom it in until it’s pixelated and deadened and tell me what colors I’m made of.