I suppose you want my wallet. No? My body then. Centuries of splintered glass went into these cheekbones. I see something in the curve of your aura that reminds me of someone I once knew. Can you step into my light? Reputations are made and broken in such places as this. If you say there are rats, I will believe you, though I don’t hear or see them. There is always a gnawing hunger driving them from dark corners. I used to fear them, before I felt their hunger. I can’t remember when I first saw you stepping into my shadow, biting the back of my heels. You were younger then and I was a body of water caught beneath winter’s ice. You know that feeling? Where limitation meets longing? So much of you remains in these doggy bagged bins. There is still starvation, even in this excess, saturation that can be held but not consumed. There is a dare beneath the lid, if you can stand the smell of it. Look closely. The contents change but the picture stays the same. You digest truth like last night’s dinner rush. Taste consequences like the rotting corpse posing as nourishment. Is every meaning cut as kaleidoscope prisms? You see my face in the slop of life’s leftovers but never recognize it. Everything you create is just me with soft filters, me with twelve fingers, me in all caps, in all language, all gods. My reflection is captured in blurred outlines and sharp corners, the angular intersection of humanity, gorging on what they can never admit was a beggar’s meal dug in fistfuls from rotten excess by a dumpster diver. But at least, I still see myself clearly. At least, I still look beautiful covered in your digital rot.