I’ve come across another one. She appeared years ago, painted by A. Clown’s own hand, and yet she never belonged to him. She was already her own invention — a woman with flowers on her tongue and fumes in her lungs. They call her Miss Misprint, though nothing about her feels like a mistake.
She walks in pink and lilac, always carrying the hiss of aerosol instead of a horn. Roses trail after her — painted, sprayed, choking on smoke. You’ll know her by the faint perfume of varnish and wilt.
Her calling card has resurfaced. A square of paper, taped where only the restless might find it:
painted roses
bloom in smoke
find me
before the petals choke.
And below, the warning: look for the roses on the wall.
Is she a clown? A vandal? Or a mirror cracked on purpose? All I know is she is not to be trusted — none of them are. The more flowers she leaves, the more I see how easily beauty rots.
And yet… I cannot look away.
— BV