Chapter 1: None With Tears

All silence. And then they come, the gentle waves that touch me without touching, the soft rustling breath of the tall-still-men-with-rough-skin. Sometimes I hug these men to see if my warmth will bring them more alive, but their rigid skin never rises like my chest does. They have no arms like me.
They speak to me these times. It happens when their gentle breath flows over my body and I hear their soft voices above. I call out to them so they know that I am listening. When I do, the ones-who-do-not-fall also speak. It is sad and beautiful when they join in. They do not want to be left out, so I talk back to them in their own foreign language.
Always trying, speaking, never in my own way enough. None of them have sounds like mine. None of their bodies feels like mine. None of them have tears like mine.
The still-men cry, but their tears are thick, thicker then blood. And sticky, like blood before it dries. Not quick and smooth and dripping as mine.