Who are you, you ask. I thought I knew you. I thought I loved you.

I have more of a crisis than an identity. I’m addicted to adjectives, trying them on for size. Sometimes they fit and sometimes they don’t, and sometimes I wear an antonym in each ear. I can’t decide if this state of affairs bothers me or not. Do I prefer chaos or order? These are the kind of decisions that can keep me running in circles for days.

I hate cleaning my room, because the mess presents the most coherent picture of me I can think of. I am barrettes and spare change and an anthology of Nietzsche’s works and blue pill powder. My psychiatrist would probably say I’m cute, too lazy to count out change, intellectual, and a substance abuser, but he’s wrong about everything. Words don’t stick, labels don’t count. I am barettes. Concrete, unchanging. My mess welcomes me home with a little me-shaped clear spot on the bed. It says, we’ll make sure you recognize yourself in the morning.

I want a tattoo, for stability. Each time I look in the mirror I look like a different person, and besides I dye my hair so frequently I couldn’t tell you what color it is now. It would be nice to have something constant about me. I want a bough of cherry blossoms on my stomach. In Japan, cherry blossoms symbolize dying young, that which is all the more beautiful for its evanescence. I die young every time I realize I’m not who I momentarily thought I was. And knowing me, I will die young someday.

I love taking pictures of myself for the same reason I want a tattoo. I snap picture after picture of the person I become with each millisecond. To the outside observer it might look like vanity, but in reality it’s curiosity. Who are these strange girls who move when I do? Some are hideous and some are beautiful, and some are merely alien. I want them to stay so I can learn about them, but they never do. Perhaps for the best. I might grow bored with one face. I might miss the endless parade of green-eyed strangers.

I have a lot of issues, but the me I am right now has to admit I’m loveable. After all, I can be anyone you want me to. I can be shy, I can be brash, I can be brilliant or I can be silly. So tell me who I am. Tell me who you want me to be. And at least for this moment, I can be everything you need, and I can need everything you are.