Object.
Noun.
a material thing that can be seen and touched.
That is what I identify as. Not as a woman, or a human with a heart or feelings... I am a object. It's been that way my whole life.
All I ever wanted was love and acceptance. For being me. But instead i am an object. A thing that people can use and abuse to whatever they see fit for themselves. No regard for my heart or feelings. As if mine doesn't exist.
Oh yeah, I forgot. I'm only an object.
How can a object have an heart? Have so much love to give yet... gets nothing in return? I am a object that can get broken. Thrown away like trash when it's no longer useful or admirable. Why do I accept this role? Why can't i just say enough is enough?
I just want someone to treat me delicately as their most prized possession. Love and take care it. Be proud to have it. Show me off. Make sure to not break it.... not to lose it.....
But I am too broken. Nothing can fix me. I'm not worth fixing anymore. I'm just an object for you look at and toss aside when you're done.
Worthless junk.
To end up with something better, because I wasn't enough....
Never was enough... never will be enough.
YOU ARE READING
Bed of Black Roses
Puisi"In my bed of black roses, I feel no sadness. I feel no pain. There is no more darkness. I feel.....at peace." -Manie Personal thoughts of a dark soul.
