I carry these stones with me for when decisions are harder to make,
the backs of them have long since been smoothed down by worry,
my fingertips taking away the pieces of Earth years of pressure created.

Pressure created me.
I was raised beneath a roof full of fractures,
and sometimes sunlight poured in,
but mostly rain did.
Puddles all around because the holes we patched never stayed fixed for very long.

So can you tell me who I am if what you did to me gave me life?
If all my broken parts were never whole to start then there is no fault.

But my life is built on fault lines,
shifting bits of Earth powerful enough to leave me in ruins just by moving.
They say Rome took longer than a day to build,
but I heard it crumbled in seconds.