my pen threw up ink on the first word i wrote, an ugly mark smeared halfway down the thick, cream-colored page. looking at that inkblot i heard a reflection of myself, identified as that smudge for one reason or another, maybe the fact that my entire identity as a whole is based off of others interpretations of me or the fact that i am always a mess; when people look at my life from a birds-eye view i am a figure only barely discernible from the chaos or maybe because people only use me as a fun party trick, like a horoscope, an arguing matter, a novelty, something thatβs thrown away and tossed aside when its duty has already been performed. whatever the reason, i think i am beautiful among the madness, despite whatever it is you see when you look at me.
inspired by a poem i heard at a reading a while ago. what object or thing best describes you?