When you stare into my icy eyes, you can clearly see the thoughts flowing tnrough my mind. Wrinkles and lines decorate my face, a permanent reveal of how deep I felt the feels; how rugged the pain; how sincere the love. My crooked mockery of a smile slowly crosses my lips in sad disapproval of every wrong I quietly witnessed.

From the front, I am but an open book.

So I wearily hang my head; squeeze my eyes shut. I stifle the noise I feel by turning my back. There you can only read an endless string of unanswered questions. The pieces don't fit, the puzzle incomplete. No rhyme or reason to the seasons of life. There you will only find muddled color and chaotic sounds of my desperate confusion.

From the back, I am but a puzzle.