I am a lobster. I’m in a trap. The trap is comfy, the food is plentiful. Why leave? I cook myself willingly. I emerge luscious red and lay in a surrealist tableau vivant, a nature morte. My flesh does not serve as nourishment, rather, my carapace is a muse, as I lay in a still life painting for the pleasure of ogling oglers. I feel the trap, I feel the pressure against my shell as I am being cooked. I scream. I lay there still, hoping my sacrifice will please others. Why am I so concerned about pleasing others?