most of my magic happens accidentally

What am I? My own brand of dervish. A proxy sage. The culmination of century’s worth of recycled names calling themselves families, faceless behind my face, where my eyes never close. Fluent, fluid, fully functioning life, only half caged, and working on stealing the key. Meandering poet with no shoes on her feet or horizon in her eyes, content with knowing that the rainbow never leaves, it just becomes invisible again. Self loathing prophet jumper with too much fear to be wrong, too much modesty to be right, and too much intrigue to ever try and settle for one or the other. A retired liar, marked and scarred with words unbound, the kindest of which hit faster than the speed of their sound. A bullshit bulimic desensitized to the taste, that will learn and relearn, and relearn, and relearn. A midwife, between the shaky exhausted thighs of frustration, birthing idea and desire with clean bare hands. Creator, dealer in the flame, craftsman of the white hot honey, balancing the fluidity and feeling out the curves. Rogue trash, spreading truth about our united nothingness, that won't light a candle for anyone who doesn't realize that they are everything. It’s not contradictory if you know which direction to read. The ribs around a two faced heart, one face resembling a fist full of nails, the other resembling a photograph of a pillow resembling a heart. What am I? I am the depths within my eyes, and the fine lines that surround them. I am a skin bag full of a breakable frame and non interchangeable parts that makes feeble, awkward gestures and tries to label them, "living," and at particularly bold moments, "loving." Hi. My name is Sarah. I photograph everything like my life depends on it. It just might. hailing from Illinois.