I am not a toy to be used.

I am an artist, I use flesh as canvas for my greatest work yet.

I am music, lyrics to all of my favorite songs.

I spent a lot of my time wondering if I was ever good enough. You had me second guessing myself.

How long does one stay before they realize this is just convenience and safety? I stayed too long. I over stayed my welcome. I stayed until love, became resentment; compassion became a chore. I stayed because I couldn’t picture what things would look like without a safety net to guide me.

But, I am not a toy to be used when you felt like it.

I wasn’t meant to just be played with, until you found something easier, softer, quieter.

I wasn’t supposed to be put back on the shelf, but here I am. Dusty, untouched, battered, broken.

Waiting, for whoever decided I was a toy they wanted to keep. I was never really meant to be kept I don’t think.

But there lies the problem.

Maybe I am.

Maybe being kept, will quiet my own internalized fire. I’m not a toy to be used, but… maybe I am. Maybe there’s a small part of me that enjoys the company of someone else, over the sound of my own thoughts.

I’m not a toy to be used, but I like the feeling of being needed.

I’m not a toy to be used, but maybe I like the feeling of being wanted.

The feeling of being cared for,

Longed for.

Hoped for.

Even if it only lasts a little while, I believe that need will be satisfied within myself, and perhaps that’s what I’m looking for anyway.

I think the day that someone takes me from my box, and realizes I am weathered and torn, they will appreciate the gift. Maybe then, I won’t be just a toy, but a prized possession, a collectors edition. Something worth their weight in gold.