I am the giver. My open arms extend from deep roots of wood to fingertips of ash. From me springs life and the lustful goblets of tender fire that fall upon young men on enchanted nights glowing with starlight. I open without shame and I let out that which is me, known and isolated in my surfaces, letting it become that which isn't me anymore. I surrender my very substance at the altar of the Other. I can sense the rainbow colors that shower over my gifts as little pinpricks on my soft skin. I have learned to enjoy them, as much as the resilient eyes and the forgotten shaking of the stones.

I am that which is discarded when it has been fully taken, left like broken wheels on the road and dead dogs decomposing in the desert. This does not make me sad. Let the last bit of my flesh become the healing salve for the tired muscles of the old men. I will live through the wrinkles in their hands and the creaking of their shoes.