The pen trembles. Not from my hand, but from the crowd gathering inside it. The Happy One snatches it first, draws suns in every corner of the page, stains the lines yellow with laughter. But the Dark One rips it away, blackens the paper, carves shadows into words that taste like rust and rain. Then the Joker shoves in, spilling ink like spilled liquor, turning grief into punchlines, pain into pratfalls. The paper groans but still accepts the joke. The Depressed One waits, he doesn’t grab. He only leans against the edge of the desk, staring, until the ink itself slows, heavy, dragging, each word like a body pulled from water. And somewhere, a smaller self whispers poems about hope. Tiny, trembling, but stubborn. Every line a fragile seed cracked open in the dark. I do not choose them. They choose me. Each self pushing, pulling, tearing the pen from hand to hand. The page fills with their battle: a crown, a grave, a joke, a prayer. I look down. The poem is a shattered mirror. Every face is mine. None of them agree. And yet, together, they write me.