[open] if you could only see the beast you've made of me

[sleaze]

I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife

Her question is certainly a fair one. How would he know, how dare he be judge and jury of her existence when he himself is so transient? He is like a picture copied and re-copied too many times over, his mind distorted and unsure, how his body goes from black to purple to black to winged to electric and now --
Now what is he?
(is he real?)

He considers simply leaving, his mind aching at the crisis of it, but he stays put. Maybe he is lonely, or maybe he is curious – both, perhaps – so he decides to push through. He smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes, and he lets his head drop to her.
“My apologies,” he says, “I was a fool to ask.”
He still doesn’t know, but he has decided, easily, that it doesn’t matter. She is interesting and when he is interested in something his mind gets just a little quieter, and god, how he longs for quiet.
“My name is Sleaze,” he says, hoping she will play along, that she will brush off his strange first question, that she will decide he is worth her time, “who are you?”

Sleaze

@Fazia