I write because its the only way to wipe the canvas of my soul clean, a new page, a new day, a new something to say. A way to free the rainbow of emotions that embody the voices in my head like the green midget-man who only ever wanted to be tall, but instead is sentenced to live life in the body of an eight-year-old troll. It's a crack in the window of a stale room, a light when the power has been turned off, a morsel of bread when I didn't realize I was so damn famished. I write because no one really gives a shit what I have to say, but the pages of my thrift shop journal beg me to visit. They tell me I'm good enough instead of I must be better. "You can live here," they coax me, even though I can see the remorse of a fresh lie in the black-stained yellows of their eyes. Like a breath of fresh air in a warehouse of feces, a vehicle to push the ugly out like a pimple on prom night. I write so I can live up to society's expectations at daybreak only to retreat back into the mysterious, foggy abyss at nightfall because all I am is a stranger without a face. I write to convince myself I haven't conformed to this sick, sad, sorry excuse of a world because I can still see the beauty in a dead butterfly's wings.