Form

Emotions require energy.
I do not manufacture vitality and dole it to the lifeless. It's rationed into careful reserves.
I vacuum the leftovers of others' energy, claw at their scraps thrown into the air. I absorb ideas and peoples, empathize with loss and angst and wax existential and indecisive on life. I am no one and no thing but the fucked-up amalgam of my surroundings, smushed into the female form.
It's ill-suited, for the female is meant to transcend reality and live on her own plane of ill emotions and little rationale. But that's a story for another day.

It is this form, and the ever-changing surroundings that pose the problem. Perhaps there is no personality behind my eyes, no creativity but weak pulses of thought, glaring out of my pupils even in their weakness.