But when he tried to walk again
He wasn't a child
And all the people hurried fast, real fast
And no one ever smiled
Birthday time. Presents and candy and cake and friends and hugs and laughs and oh so so perfect everything. My birthday was spent on a cold tile floor shaking and letting the blood bead on my legs and then fingerpainting with it. When I was a little girl I used to call it dippy art. Dip Dip Dip. Drip Drip Drip. Right onto the cold tile floor. But her birthday will be different and sparkly and magical. Why? Because she isn't me that's why. No one notices you unless you're shoving your happiness down their throats. Make them choke on it. Otherwise they like their worlds. Otherwise they don't care. A message on your wall, a quick text. That's what working hard on a friendship for years equals. They send their message so they've done their part. It doesn't matter that you don't respond. It doesn't matter because you're making grand works of art on the bathroom floor. But wipe it up so mom and dad don't find out. Tell them the scars are from climbing a fence drunk one night with friends. Because you have so so many friends.