fine grained grit embedded in pale grey cement
wind over my skin, the grass is moving a bit
voices are just out of reach- whispering things
i just wish i could hear
suddenly the wind dies and slivers of words meet my ears
but only slivers
slivers of whispers
imbed themselves in my skin
thin pieces of word that i wish werent there
"i hate everything, don't talk to me"
It ******* kills me to hear