I’m a floppy doll with no spine. A rag doll with no core.
I can’t stay upright. I need to be propped up and then supported.
Let go, send me home on my own, leave me to my own devices, and I crumple into a sorry little heap on the floor.
Or I fold over, spiritless.
I lie prone or curl into a ball at the corner of my bed. I can almost roll into myself and take up that little space.
But I can’t get up. I can’t stay upright.
Because I’m just a shell. I was never filled from the inside with anything but spineless stuffing that takes up space but can’t hold me.
I wasn’t fed in a way that enables me to be erect. I’m a useless little thing that can be dragged around. A stray object that lies forlorn in some dusty corner.
I can be a little or even a secret-big someone’s security toy, and yet am so insecure myself. I can be a child’s object of comfort, and yet I collapse so easily.
I wear a goofy smile when inside I’m just a mush of polyester filling; a mouth that's pasted on because I have no words to say.
Nothing on the inside to come out.