One of these days I'll paint your portrait           in my epilogue,
  an untrained hand           unearthing your humanity.

You:                 fleshy, healthy, corporeal—     never nourished.
Hair like nopales, despite your efforts and the gel,

  that you adore in                       loud silence,           since you still go on
  pretending you don't     subsist on the theatrical.
Sandy skin and glassy eyes, you                       look like the desert you live in.

You're cruel sometimes and     you would know this
  if you allowed           yourself to pause and
  think every so often,     but you haven't faltered yet.

It is my purpose in life to immortalize                       your fall.

My only desire:           to remember how beautiful you might have been
if you'd even once cried in front of somebody else.

So humor me.
  Pose in front of my     canvas as I work, and consider the advice
  of someone else patched from nonentity.

I was written into existence, created a           minor character in a     sci-fi book who was mentioned
  by name only once. In canon, I worked in a flower shop,
  and my one spoken line was: "Thank you."

I am not always so grateful.     I choose to be more.

My advice: Stop entertaining the idea           that rationality will     save you.
  You were orphaned by specificity, but           you were Born from an ideal.

You forget that your life was peeled up           from the edges of
  a child's scribbled drawing,

and I hold nothing     but high standards for
  someone shaped like the absurd.