In this silent world, pins & needles prick my skin, & scattered eggshells have become my life's sidewalk. These millions of thoughts that just can't ever be shared, collect like dust on my soul. I lie here, contentedly, contemplating sticks & stones & the speck of existence that I have always been. Noticing that it is only my own opinion of my own life that really matters. I can't live based on the approval of others. I will hold you to my chest like you are crying a shudder running cold from long bones as they seep salt, lacrimal. Feeling the pink flesh imperfect, it's how scars never form nor fade fast enough. My birthday balloons sinking to the floor in a matter of minutes, so fast that I never could see it coming.