They stare through you here, like everywhere, so it’s not any different. Strangers not looking you in the eyes, but smiling as though they know your story because they know your name, but I can call myself anything. Change my name for each chapter, label each of my pages with who I am or who I appear to be. Maybe I just look like a bitch or a whore, or maybe I’m amazing. Maybe I’m sick, but goddamn beautiful. What do you care. A name is only a name like a label is nothing more than an opinion. I am never only a page that you can dog ear with your filthy hands, rip it out. Do what you please. My story isn’t a dot to dot book, boy. It’s not an I spy game of where your fingers rest today and where they may wander tomorrow. I’m the story you binge on, without purging. You are fucking starving for it. You just don’t know how to choke on depth, so you thumb through blindly, trying to find the parts you deem good enough to keep. And I say, fuck you… every piece of me is a masterpiece. I know that now without needing to search your eyes for the pages you skipped over. Jump over the cracks, mother fucker, hop scotch your way to the next highlighted story line and the next and next and next and next and fuck you. This isn’t red rover… I don’t need an invitation to be good enough.