I am a ghost among ghosts in an inescapable town filled with judgmental eyes peering around sharp corners and through closed doors. My pumping pink ventricles are turning white with every passing second that I spend waiting for something with life to cross my trail. Unfortunately, holding my breath for things that never come has become a ***** habit that I can't rid of, and my lungs are brittle from the compressed breaths and toxic cigarette smoke I subject them to. They say it takes twenty one days to stop habits, but an hour doesn't pass without me thinking of all the reasons I am unwillingly invisible and how you made me this way. The only thing that acknowledges my form are clocks, and they only remind me, with every tick and grind, that I am one unit of time closer to being another collection of dismembered bones covered in dirt with a chunk of stone telling others my label and a saying that tries to put meaning in something that was never going to matter. Many say that I am being morbidly negative about my existence, and maybe their right, but on good days I like to think that maybe i was meant to be good fertilization for lovely flowers that a senseless boy will pick for a troubled girl someday.