They grimace at me in distaste, and call me materialistic.
How could I not be, the way I feel when I spend money is pure bliss.
People hurt, betray, and abandon.
But my belongings, around me always.
Not that they really have a choice, anyway.
Regardless, objects have been the only constant in my life.
People come and go, but my favorite purse hangs on a hook, waiting for me to go out and take it with me.
My stuffed animals, neatly arranged on my bed, receive me with consistency and adoration each night.
In my head, I imagine that they are envious of the one I choose to sleep with.
My clothes are flattered to be worn and chosen each day.
My alarm clock, faithfully wakes me up when the sun comes up.
My things are mine and they stay.
People are and will never be mine, and have a say.
All this to say, yes, I love gifts and everything I own.
You would too, if you understood what it's like being alone.
11/04/22
YOU ARE READING
Rainfall
PoetryA collection of poems written by me, some are based off my experiences or just random inspiration.
