WHAT AM I MADE OF

my skin's the pile of paper in the corner of my desk; some of the sheets stay relatively unspoiled while the majority population succumbs to spills and the claws on my cat.

documents, checklists and a lot of tiny post-it notes. i'm not sure how long that crap's been there, and i'm not planning on sorting it out anytime soon.

my hair's a clump of tangled cords, like the earphones in my pocket

and my eyes just never stop; they're like a pair of boiled eggs on a plate - impossible to keep still as you carry them to the table. if i'm not careful, they roll out of their sockets. don't even get me started with my hands at a time i'm being told to stay still.

and my brain -

well, it's a junk drawer waiting to be sorted.

i mean, one thing for sure is it's full of stuff, stuff that's magically made its way in there.

ironically, i don't even have a so-called junk drawer, and if my brain were an actual drawer, it'd be the messiest one in my room. i'm cool with that.

when i have to, i can dig through and pull out what i need, though it may take a while...

sometimes the clutter's so bad that it's embarrassing when someone takes a look.

but sometimes, once in a while, occasionally, i discover an old photo or a trinket -

a sugary quirk in the grey garbled brain salad, something i want to share, or stare at for ages, something that definitely doesn't belong in a junk drawer.

our own junk drawer messes probably look a shit ton worse than those of the people around us, but that's just because we're constantly opening and examining them and everyone else likes to show the more organized bits of themselves - the parts they've already combed through and licked clean.

amidst the rubble we see in us - the stuff we're made of, there always ought to be something worth discovering; we just have to look past the chaos, including the confusing piles of paper, knotty wires and weird, fidgety eggs.

though it may often feel like it, i guess we aren't complete trash after all.