who am i?
if you asked, i'd say i'm a mess of chipped photofluorescent nail polish, parched owl eyes, transparent skin, cold hands, formerly-bound teeth, spiderweb veins, spent nerves, laundry air, the color blue, rainbow soles, swiftly-tilting spirals, long legs, worn words, disturbed corpses, September wind, sycamore leaves, smoldering driftwood, glitter saffron iris, and suffocating embers. i am the dank trenton street that makes you wince in the moonlight and the rain that stopped pounding its hands against the rooftop. i am the skyscraper that cuts the sky with its pain and the rancid cardboard housing a lonely man. sometimes i'm even cadmium red hue oil paint or an a minor crescendo under hollow chest.
most of the time i'm a skeletal book with pages so threadbare and words so cramped that you'll have to write in the margins.
then again, no one really wants to know the answer to that question. when asked, you answer with the name your parents gave you, the job title you took to get by in this greedy world, the social security number you recognized because you're told it has something to do with the papers outlining your being. no one spills the soup of her soul to a stranger on request.
but don't worry, i'm probably lying about all of that anyway.
and this site... it's what happens when you give a half-breathing computer to a demi-psychopath. enjoy.