brush me

when i say that i am on the wall outside your bedroom window, i trust you will understand i am speaking figuratively. i can see myself plastered all around your house, so it seems nothing but fair that i be allowed to watch from outside it. though you have spent your life walking past and through me, you will appreciate this fact: i always tried not to stain your clothing, your hair, or skin. i feel more like a basis for your existence than a force that has shaped it, but i will humor myself by claiming to have some of the answers. i know what everything flows into and what it means to be blacked out. i know the sting of labels, of external creations that redefine one's identity. i have been marked, scrubbed, and covered over with fresh versions of myself. eventually i gain some character, and it's then that my value is least.