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.
He doesn’t understand that we were happy to be donated
To other children who need us.
To William, we are not toys,
We are real people that he let go.
We are more weight,
More stepping stones
On the trail of abandonment that he is building.
Posted in response to the challenge Forgotten.
After dusk, we become paranoid. Our brains, primed for hyperactive pattern seeking by millennia of evolution, can't help but tell us that that noise downstairs was an intruder, or maybe even something worse...
On my sixteenth birthday.
I curled into a ball in the frayed, silk afterglow of childhood,
When you are old
Your skin will become like paper,
And your bones will be like the wooden ribs
Of a lantern
So that the world will see the light in your chest.
But I don't need to wait
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