Walked On

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.