Tearing at the seams, ragged and forgotten.
I pulled myself together from pieces of what I thought you wanted me to be.
I stitched in the pain with the traits I thought you desired.
I tried in vain to be what someone wanted,
My patches were kindness, selflessness, love, encouragement, humour.
They were bright when I found them and became dull at my touch.
I bled to keep them close, to cover up my disgrace.
It wasn’t enough for you,
I am an ugly little thing, dishevelled and lifeless.
I am coated in filth, neglected and ashamed.
Covered in marks from being torn and torn yet again,
I am undesirable and unwanted.
I sit on my shelf and watch as people choose nothing, over me.
I am a patchwork doll.