Mother of otherness, Eat me.

I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.

You smile. No, it is not fatal.

Why can’t I try on different lives, like dresses, to see which fits best and is more becoming?

I am jealous of those who think more deeply, who write better, who draw better, who ski better, who look better, who live better, who love better than I.

They would grow old. They would forget me.

God, is this all it is, the ricocheting down the corridor of laughter and tears? Of self-worship and self-loathing? Of glory and disgust?