Who am I, but a bag of bones, loosely held together by emotions?
I, the malfunctioning piece of machinery, am the one with such outdated ideas of love that I let the vultures pick my heart apart.
I, the lonely seamstress, am the one who not only sews my heart back to my sleeve, but mends other's hearts with patches made from my own.
I, the young woman with too much to give, have run myself, and my weakly beating heart, ragged.
I have worn my bones down to a fine powder that blows away bit by bit in the misty wind.
I, the bag of nothing at all, somehow still have more to give away, more to offer the world, more to love with.
I am nothing but a ghost of emotions and a highly functioning web of thoughts and memories.
Now I want to take from the world-
all the knowledge I can keep in this nothing brain of mine.