In lieu of writer’s block, I decided to turn to the book “300 Writing Prompts.” One prompt happened to catch my attention and promise a creative article for a change in tempo. All objects from the following descriptions are present in my dorm.

“Look around you and choose an object in the room. Now write something from the point of view of that object.” – 300 Writing Prompts

I’m misunderstood. No one knows who I truly am. Everyone points, laughs and pokes at me. I have become so blue due to these accusations stating I am something I am not. It takes the right and careful eye with the tilt of a head to see me for my true form. My glossy appearance is merely my tears. My feathers are not ears. My neck is not a trunk. I am a peacock.

We keep a watchful eye 24/7. We see you from three different angles. We see your bedhead, nude body and various outfits of the day. We silently watch as you, your friends, your family and your belongings come and go. We replay your most private moments instantaneously. We watched you kick that crumb under your bed, but we’ll never tell (mainly because we can’t).

When I’m clean, I sit upon your shelf and collect dust. When I’m dirty, you throw me on the bed post. Sometimes I’m lucky enough to leave the room, but I immediately regret leaving your room once the humid air and germ-filled surfaces touch me. Besides the fact that I don’t have legs to get up and leave, I know I’m the only thing to protect you once we leave the safety of your four walls. I am a thin layer separating your modesty from embarrassment and indecency.

I lay here in the dark. I see light maybe five minutes a day. I hear the noise of hangers clanging and drawers opening, and finally my drawer opens. I see half of your face as you begin to leaf through the various shirts cluttering your dresser drawer. Your finger grazes me and I flinch. “Maybe she’s looking for me,” I think. Then, you merely lift me up to grab the shirt under me as you always do. Maybe next time.

I’m really not so terrible. I don’t deserve to be hanged, yet here I am. I know yellow is not the best color, but I cannot help my natural being. I cannot help that I am not used for my original purpose either. I serve as a decoration and prop instead.