People either love me or hate me. There usually is no middle ground. Feast or famine. Hit or miss. My writings are just scribbled down observations as I perform pre-mortem autopsy on myself while the seconds tick away. I'd like to think that maybe one day I'll stand on a stage and read my findings to an enraptured crowd. So what is it I've found?

I'm the girl who doesn't belong in the city. I'm the shy one who longs for a place between the night sky, the ocean, and the stars. Somewhere beneath the moonlight with the waves lapping at her feet while she relives the myths, fairy tales, and legends all over again.

I paint my face and get all dolled up in skirts, corsets, and lingerie just to play the piano while no one else is home. I pretend I'm in another place, another time. Playing and singing to a crowd in a room where seduction curls above them all like cigarette smoke.

I change from day to day and hour to hour. Sometimes I'm your angst ridden coffeehouse poet, bloodied from the spill of her quill, ink smudged, and brilliantly fucked up. Sometimes I'm the taste of neon, the electric blue you find in dreams, just another technological disaster addicted to the bass beats and flashing lights like a moth to a flickering flame. And other times I'm simply a child without a fairytale.

Won't you tell me a story?