Do you still love me?

I was born in the rotten armchairs of a city of glass. Seed from the hordes of self-made consumers Do you still love me? When time screamed bitterly announcing the birth of Nothing, I let out my first eternal cry, an ode to sadness. Do you still love me? I live, I feel, I write resumes, I am dying to publish my unfinished and demon-fostered unholy autobiography. Do you still love me? I write to express my instinct or to eat my flesh roasted, kindling the pages of some cheap collection of mine? Do you still love me? I sell my silver soul for my famous body cheap words and chilling verses of a sad literary wretch. do you still love me I am afraid of the rage that my pen transmits in my musty but pure soul. My pure soul? Do you still love me?