I love the way he runs his fingers through my hair, and makes me feel beautiful even on my worst days. His touch is gentle yet firm, guiding through the tangles of my life with ease. He knows just how to smooth out the knots, bringing order to the chaos with a few deft strokes. There's a kindness in his caress, a silent reassurance that no matter how disheveled I feel, he's there to put me back together.

In his presence, I stand a little taller, my strands falling just right. He's the unsung hero of my morning routine, the architect of my confidence. With every touch, he leaves a trail of love behind, slowly sculpting me to beauty. Strand by strand, stroke by stroke.

I’d be lost without my hairbrush.

Freshly out of the box. Put together. Brand new. No dogs allowed. It is a replacement. Big and grey, with a corner and some recliners. A cupholder or two. A young man and woman come to sit. They each have water cups and put them in place. A tiny spill happened in the middle of the movie they were watching. Everyone made a fuss trying to clean their new couch. It's was spotless. At first.

Two months go by and papers are stuffed in the catty. Sticky gum is stuck in the cupholders. The dog has secretly gone on the "new" couch twice, in one day. The young man and woman come to sit again, to finish their work. They have laptops, and place there special coffee drinks in the cup holders. The precipitation gets on it. One of them brings dinner to eat while they work. They spill multiple times. It has many spots. At last.

“Oh, so now you want to?” “The moment you don’t think you should?” “Really?” “Idiot.” “Complete, utter idiot.” “You…” “You are an idiot.” “You’re so stupid I want to laugh.” “I just can’t believe you.” “Stupid.” “WOULD YOU QUIT ROLLING YOUR EYES AT THE SAME TIME AS ME?!”

I am the truth. I am not what you think is in yourself I am not what you think of yourself I am simply you.

And I have been many other souls, To placate the fact that I don’t have one of my own. Maybe I held a real purpose once, Maybe I felt real once, But I’m shallow. Were I liquid you would never get your arm through. Were I a portal there would be nothing on the other side. You would end where you started, Just a little warped.

You don’t need me. You can love me, You can hate me, You can ignore my presence. But you don’t need me.

You’d know if you really looked in the mirror.

Take the desert sands from a cursed, ancient city and strain it through a sieve. Collect it again underneath. Take the sand to fire and set it alight, then take the gilded crumbs and grind them down with pestle and mortar until smooth. Add water from a nearby, arcane stream to intensify its effects and stretch the potion out. Watch as the sands dissolve like salt. Liquified, watch as it grows to stand on two feet. Pure, refined passion. It beckons towards you with two attractive fingers and sways side to side in the light of the moon. The scent, intoxicating. The face makes you smitten. The body irrestible. The curves draw anyone with common sense, or lack of, right in. It almost stops you from thinking, the shape of it and the fire inside. It breathes with such intensity that you wonder if you’ve ever felt that way yourself. Your feet wobble towards the figure, a fly to the fly trap. Your deepest desire is a dance with this handsome figure. You reach out a hand to grab it by the glassy sides and raise it to your lips, feeling the fire honey within pour down your throat.

And when you wake up on the pavement later, you’ll wonder why it ever seemed so enticing at all.

Numerous generations of the same family had passed through it. In each hand that held it, it experienced a range of feelings. It had seen young Timmy grow up to marry his childhood bestfriend. His father’s aged hands held it with years of wisdom passed through to the study until he could no longer read. Timmy’s height and age were recorded on it from years past. At last, a maintenance guy put his hands on its hinges and held the screw driver up to it.

"This is your moment. Let's send you on your way to a new journey.”

The door grinned as its hinges gave way.

“How refreshing," it thought.

A one way portal, both entirly hated and loved. Nothing by a cheep copy, a sad copy, an angry, happy, broken copy. Smashed, empethy over flowing but never able to show it. Broken peices still refecting sad and unwanted. A mirror, both hated and loved.

My clock always talks to me. At the time I want to wake up, it says “it’s time to wake up, exercise, wash up, and eat breakfast!” Then a bit later, it tells me “don’t be late for work!” After hearing that, I drive to work. While I’m at work, I hear it saying “that was supposed to be completed today.” After hearing that, I hurry to complete my work. At around noon, I can hear it saying “you should eat lunch.” I go and eat after hearing this. A few hours after eating my lunch and after having gone back to work, I hear it say “it’s time to go home.” I get into my car and drive home. I make dinner after hearing it say “it’s time to make dinner.” After that, I eat. Then I sit on the couch, wanting to relax. After a couple of minutes, I can hear the clock telling me “don’t waste your time. Do something fun.” I turn the TV on. A bit after watching, the clock tells me “it’s time to go to bed.” I get on my bed, and fall asleep.

Everyday I sit next to what I want to be. They’re bright and lively. Thriving despite the less than optimal conditions “our” parent provides. Shes’s theirs too. They are green, I am, what, grey, a little sad, pale green mixed in. My color fades everyday. They may be able to die but they can thrive too. I reach for the light too. I may not need it but I want it. Just to be like them.

 My reality shifted the day montie died. Monesteras are king here. His collapse gave me an epiphany. I’m immortal. Maybe I’ll find acceptance of my existence if I convice myself I’m better than them. Healthy doesn’t always mean happy. So maybe a twisted perception could lead to better places for me. Maybe the stories got it wrong. Here I am. A tiny porcelain plant figurine. Anything should be allowed to enter their villian era right?

My washing machine, turns round and round Attempting to cleanse my dirty deeds

It’s washed this load before, to contain the secret And keep it safe from thieves

It’s tireless in its quest, to make these tattered clothes Pristine and with no stains

Trying all the angles, bleaching imperfection away until No sign of it remains

It’s relentless because, I can’t bear the idea that My pure colors won’t come back

So it tries and tries, frantically fixated On new strategies to attack

So the machine swirls and hums, in desperate hope That this blood and dirt won’t leave a stain

But the truth is some mistakes, don’t come out in the wash Especially those infused with pain