she is, perhaps, a little odd

i sit innocuously upon her right ring finger,

cinched or stuck unless twisted -- released -- just right,

though she prefers to think it optional.

a cluttered collection surrounds her;

scraps of paper, floating quotes, a kaleidoscope of glitter,

and a hodge-podge of old coats

litter the floor, among grudges and friendships alike.

things she just can’t let go of,

for better or for worse.

my face is varied, sure.

high in one place, low another,

gritty and smooth, both.

i’d say it gifts me something of an interesting look,

thought I doubt that she agrees.

pits and craters mar her profile

and are all she seems to see,

she sits and dwells and focuses on it,

wishing that the mirror would reflect

her personality and voice;

i’m afraid to admit that she just might

wish her whole self away.

someone may have done just that

to certain parts of me,

i’m riddled with holes,

almost as if someone snapped their jaws my way.

three or four, they dot my surface,

like the boys who’ve spotted her past,

this recent one, he burned her well,

though I don’t think that she blames him for it.

(regardless of the fact that she cried

for days or weeks or months,

if he hadn’t made it up to her,

i’d be more likely drowned than present now

-- i think she’d have cried a year.)

i know she blames the horrid girl.

she’s stayed together as of yet,

made all the more beautiful for her scars.

Author's Note

for my college preparatory english class, i was assigned to compare myself to my wonky little silver ring, instead, my ring compared herself to me.