I am the broken toy you still keep. You didn't know I was broken, I looked fine when you bought me, but I don't work the way I should. You get angry with me, as if, somehow, it was my own fault.
I am the chair that you sit in, for a moment, just to rest, or to enjoy the view, before you go off again.
I am the leftovers you forgot.
The one floorboard that always squeaks.
The window that doesn't quite close.
The footsteps in the attic.
Are you my owner, or my friend, or just a passerby?
Do I scare you, intrigue you? I don't think I'll ever know. Unless we could hang out, for once. But who am I kidding? Only crazy people talk to objects.That's what I am, aren't I? Surely I must be.
I've tried to ask a few people... they only sigh, or get mad... or pretend that I'm not there. I guess I'm not supposed to speak. I'm sorry, I didn't know.
They only tell me when something's wrong. When I fall, or slip from their grasp.
I try to offer solutions, but they just get mad again. Am I not supposed to think, either?
I wish someone else would pick me up, take me away from here. There must be someone who wants to hear me, right? But I don't have eyes to see, or legs to walk....
Why must I be in this body? I'm so much more than....this.
I guess I'll just keep waiting. I'm good at waiting.