I’m not sure which is worse, having my hair torn out everyday and markers drawing ‘makeup’ on my face, having a dog chew on my arm and a toddler chew on my leg.

William doesn’t talk to us anymore.

He left us in the closet when he moved out of the house.

Time tears at our gentle fabric skin.
 

William won’t let us go in his head.

I rot in here now

Along with the old milk can

In the garbage bin.

Your love too

Has expired just like

The milk can.

Now I rot

With the milk can and

Your spoilt love.

The toy falls 

faster 

faster 

closer to the ground 

its paws reaching out

it lands on the grass with a light thud

it hides there

waiting

quietly.