Like a running commentary.

I am a shape shifter. I am no one. I am trying so hard to become every person I see, or at least a mixture, because everyone is better than me. And the dripping incense burns holes in my head, or at least my eyes. I'm not sure which anymore, and I haven't been since you walked in the door. And you know it's kinda weird when you contradict yourself and there's no one there to listen anyway. Anyway. Getting inspiration from the dirtiest of men, aren't you just poet when put that shiny razor to your skin? Skin. Not enough to cause real damage or make all hell break loose. He said I miss you. I miss you. I miss you so bad. Did he miss the point as well? Did he miss his chance to get to hell and now he's all I got.
Now he's all I got.