Tell us your life story.
Five short words smile brightly, innocently. What pieces of me do you want? I can hand them to you, bloody and dripping. You can fondle my pain, admire my jagged edges. No? Too personal? Take my mummified pieces, dried, analyzed, separated from everything that gave them purpose.
Ah, yes, you say. This represents her. This explains her. This we understand.
How can you claim to see me through the processed, pulped, revised remains you hold?
You aren’t asking for a living story. You’re asking for a paper corpse. Simple, unchanging, undead.
Oh, I’m sorry, 250 words or less?
I’ll remove another piece of me.