There are times he makes me feel that I am but an old toy. Like a child, he plays with his newest belongings in front of his friends. But secretly in the dark of night, when no one else can see, he clings to this battered old plaything. As if scared that his new toys will break; he treats them with care and gentle hands; catered to and well kept. But his soft old bear, seemingly unbreakable, is used as pillow, punching bag, and secret keeper – with no thought to the splits in her stitching or to the stuffing falling to the floor as she is tossed about and drug through life.

Just as I am sure that I am forgotten, left to silently deteriorate, a haphazard repair is made to the suddenly apparent tears. Still because he cannot, will not, part with the security of simpler days this pummeled plush represents he prolongs her end. But for the very reasons he will not give her up, he cannot justify a place for me in his life. Again set aside to make room for his plastic toys; not truly fixed, stuffing still strewn about, but no longer taking active damage, in this familiar state of neglect; I am left to watch the sentiments, he would only whisper in my ear in the dead of night, take physical form as they are openly bestowed upon another.