I like to think I’m a needle.
In the world’s biggest stack of needles. Ever.
That being said. I like to think I am hiding in the smack dab middle of said needle stack, hoping someone will eventually risk the complexion of their hands to find me. I’m hidden in a lovely little corner, in the middle, surrounded by needles. I only speak to a limited number of needles, those that are in my vicinity. My voice is small, smaller than many other people’s. But as I continue to speak, I find my volume slowly increasing.
There is a group of needles like me. A group of needles who listen to pop/punk/rock, who play video games, who read John Green. Those whose hearts are not quite satisfied but happy momentarily in their little lives of stainless steel. There are those, however, that have found their life not so stain free. I was that kind.
I like to think that the muddled red on my point is not something that has happened to many needles. But I know now that is not the case. I have felt the bitter cold of other needles and have risen above it. It is possible.
As a band of needles once said, “My scars remind me, that the past is real.” Needles tend to dwell on the past, but never remind themselves that it actually happened, that they’re real events.
Some needles need reminders that their end is sharp.
Some are kind. Some are sure they only come in contact with other needles with their sides, not their point. Those tend to be stabbed the most.
I am kind. Therefore I am stabbed. I’m sure many of you can say the same.