I wish to be the carpet that those famous wish to walk on. To be the side of a barn that can be seen from the other side of town. Like the burst of fireworks, or the blush of a first kiss. To be the lunar eclipse the night we colonize Mars. Instead, I am a sliced hand that bleeds on your essay. The start of a bruise. A part of life the news won't let you view. The fallen stop sign before the busy intersection. The pain after a butchered c-section. I am the American Flag recovered from the Challenger disaster. I’m that Skittles wrapper you slipped on on your way down the stairs.