his muscles buldge, his anger hits and my face reddens. i can't help but think that even in his "moments of strength" that i am stronger. for i am the internal body builder. my skin stretches and swells with every picture i paint, every poem i write and every note i sing. art is my freedom. i suppose that i am his canvas, his art, his outlet for the pain he feels. for surely he paints me with the most beautiful and expressive colors.....black and blue, and green and purple. then my frail body thuds on the hardwood flooring. is this also his music?