Yard Sale
My blood weighs nowhere near enough for your satisfaction.
My heart is too light to tip your scale.
My lungs can’t hold enough air to produce your oxygen.
My liver can’t handle any more of the poison your glare injects me with.
I never told you I was your doll.
Yet you listen to my joints click and you push to hear the snap.
You see my articulation begin to get jammed.
Acknowledge the fact the nails in my wrists and the screws in my head rusted.
Yet you refuse to throw me out.
What fun is there left in such a discolored product such as I for you to keep me?
For once in my life I think I’d prefer to be thrown out.
The box you pack me in is utterly filthy.
Yet it’s almost as if you expect me to work like I’m brand new, while you have seen my damage.
How could you not see it, right?
It was done by your hand, your tongue, they carved my marks and cracked my plastic.
You know when you acquired me that I was a fragile plastic.
A cheap plastic yet still pleasing to look at.
When you finally let me go do you expect to make a return?
The damage has stricken the value.
You will toss me in the free bin for someone else to grab.
They will find a use for me and I pray it is slightly more merciful than yours.
Written 10 April 2026 at 3:30 PM
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