I am what I am.
The wavering question mark at the end of the nervous inquiry.
I am the final drops of dandelion wine that grace your monstrous lips as you scream at me for being empty.
I am the first drag of your cigarette as you blame the stars for your twisted fate.
I am the silence after the collision of your fist to my cheek, the stinging of my eyes and red stained skin promising not to fade until the morning after.
I am the sunflowers you left on her grave last winter, long forgotten by both you and time.
I am manic love and screaming intemperance.
The final burst of carelessness as you run to the cliff’s edge in an attempt to mimic Icarus.
I am the intrinsic bleeding of burning star-crossed losers.
I am a universe of exploding stars, unanswered questions, and questionable prayers.
I am the throw of a ticking clock at five am after hours of restless insomnia.
I am going 90 on the freeway at midnight with the music just as volatile.
I am the shudder of anticipation.
The relentless ache for more.
I am Jane Doe.
I am oblivion.
I am freedom.
I am what I am.