Phoenix

She doesn’t like drawing things with names or eyes. She doesn’t like drawing for more than one person. She’d trick herself into thinking she was doing it for someone in particular and then never show it to them or put it up on instagram. There they could bask in strangers’ eyes, their meaning forever lost in plain sight. Just like the trope of men burning their poems. Burning something and leaving it out for the world to see are similarly destructive. 

If there is a woman that is born from the ashes of burnt poems, then there is a man born from over-exposed paintings. Another born from the bottom of a wine bottle, another born from too many social experiments in place of real connections and another born from attempts to prove mathematical theorems with art. There is a mother out there who feeds off humiliating moments, a hero to mankind birthing souls for the next generation.