Make me something.

Klaudia hid from her sisters and cried. She cried into a big, sloppy wet puddle of a self. She was a personality held in an organdy pouch that had finally been torn too far open to mend, and nothing was keeping her together any more. Here it was. Klaudia was a shallow, wretched fraud. Chickadees came through the trees in a popping wave of curiosity. She sat still, praying for a bird to land beside her and make her something. They skipped by, and she remained nothing.