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.
When I was a little younger than I am now,
I went home after school and wrote until bedtime.
That was enough to take me into the stratosphere.
I'd play in the cloud for hours and hours.
I will tell you what I remember from high school, and I will tell you how you can follow in my sinful and lowly footsteps, that your blood might be as holy as mine.
I first began in the business of selling people when I sold a strange man in Jerusalem that I did not like for thirty silver pieces. Swaths of people flocked after him down into the precipice of the market.
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