I'm spineless and I started smoking cigarettes at a young age then stopped then started again.
I drink too much coffee and I laugh at jokes that aren't funny.
I hurt in hollow ways and I've changed.
Changed so much that's it's odd to look at myself but people seem to recognize me more than before and I find it strange.
There are days I think that I might have to start explaining to every person I meet that I have feelings because I've been carelessly taken advantage of and hurt a lot and other days I think maybe I'm just too sensitive and the world is not.
I have rare eyes, they're green, and they're only mine.
They hold a lot and I wonder if their home to anyone.
I know souls are real because I feel mine inside me and I write about it too much.
Sometimes I talk a lot, rambling on and on, and other times I'm too silent to be comfortable looking from you to the car window.
Ever since I was a little girl I'd pick little things out and lock myself in bathrooms to sort them out and everything unimportant.
And I've grown frantically trying to become something meaningful on this spinning dime in space and time, but I'm not sure why.
Because my story means something, it's of importance to me.
