on most days in my life—I'm a broken toy. filthy, torn apart, and to be thrown away. no one wants to play with a ruptured doll anymore—something so vile. the people want flashy, not bleak. working, not fractured. funny enough, the words in my brain are what father says. be useful unless you want them to discard you away. a something so you don't fall off the edge of the world. kindness, empathy, forgiveness—no. useful. that, is a virtue. run yourself into the ground until you're limping and bleeding and your shoes are torn but hey, at least you'll leave a mark on a person or two. they might remember your name for a week right? that is all he says matters, and on some (most) days, I believe him. people only remember what you do for them, not who you are.
sometimes I believe I'm nothing but chewed up gum on the side of the road or a dead street cat run over. ruined and rotten to the core and nothing/no one can save me in this lifetime unless I'm something to them. I suppose I've always been too comfortable with being a no one. a nobody to anyone. I've always been a fleeting moment—a friend of a friend, a stranger on the street, a girl you met at a party two days ago who doesn't seem to speak much. the responsibilities of being a someone burdened me like no other. to be known was to be seen.
on some days, I suppose I'm as useful as father asks me to be, even when it tears my insides apart. even when it withers and sickens my heart wholly. only then, do I not feel like I'm falling off the edge of the world.
