My bloodstains on this carpet prove my existence. My skin on that coffee table is enough DNA to say, yes, she was here....she drew breath. If I die inside the confines of this corner right now, someone would at least know that I was alive, that I mattered enough to be hated so violently. Long after he hits me for the last time, when his fist has become like a piece of straw and my skull has become like the camel's back, this thin piece of paper will have survived all of it and will perhaps serve as a fitting obituary. The dynamics here are so ironic. I am cracked and bloodied, flicking a loose tooth with my tongue, viewing the room from floor level through one and a half eyes...and bleeding out more life and passion for it than he could ever know in his drunken state of alcohol saturated contempt. I am alive. I am alive. I am alive.