How they will always insist on seeing what you do in some different way and then saying that their way is the way you really see it. This is about sex, they say, and you say that it is not, that it is simply nature and that it is free and they nod coyly and say sure sure, sex is natural sex is free. This was not your point. Your point was that a flower bursting into bloom, the colors inducing synesthesia, the purple exploding in your mouth, is beautiful enough as it is. Does not have to be joculared into a sex organ of anything other than what it is. How they will insist, though, and juxtapose the photographs of your actual naked body as if it proves rather than clearly invalidates their point. If you wanted bodies you would have had bodies, would have had soft downy hair beaded with sweat, the salt flavor strong on the tongue in your mind. The implication of metaphor when your gaze and your hands have never been anything more than perfectly direct. And now you are painting the world on the other side of a bone and all they want to talk about is the bone, which they say represents your fear of death. As if you felt such fear; as if any fear could keep you from what you want. As if you were ever interested in the picked-clean curve when the blue sky on the other side was all you wanted, that clear perfect cerulean and the moon nesting in it. Death, to the extent you will indulge the metaphor, is only the frame for the place you are aiming to capture. And yet they insist. You blink at them in lashless boredom, a portrait of zero fucks given, and pick up the brush and get back to the sky.