It’s that perfect tingling feeling just beneath your skin, the one you can do nothing to fix. She’s the needles to my pins, she gives me that feeling. When I saw her I felt it and I knew—mine. Needles, my quiet packrat, my sweet seamstress, she thinks I have a heart inside this hollow chest. I stick a knife through it everyday just to show her I don’t. Still she won’t believe me, leaving me notes sewn into my clothes, and touching me when no one is looking. No matter what I stab into myself, it doesn’t take away that feeling, the skin crawling, needle pricks that scuttle just below the surface whenever she’s too close. I love it—it’s mine. I will be her pincushion, she pins the pieces of me together so softly with her quiet smile and shimmering eyes. I don’t need her words, I have her and I’ll never let her go.