like a child who has grown
too old for colouring, i am
a half empty box of crayons
lost in the suffocating folds
of the sofa

i am a carton of stuffed toys
who've had their life
hugged out of them, i am
the dog ears on a yellow
paperback

and i am the friend you forgot
about when the popular kids
came your way and made me
watch you leave

i am a passing storm, i am
a circumstance that people
get all too familiar with
and eventually forget
is there

and i am not ashamed
to be these things. i am
a collection of long lost
memories, all of which
simply just happen to end the same way.

i am not beyond repair
but the knife edges are dull
and the needles hurt more than
they used to

not abused, just used.

how does it feel
to be secondary,
you asked?

it feels like
holding up the back
and realising no one's
manning the front

it feels like
knowing you were
probably the last person
they'd ever ask

it feels like
unjustified jealousy
so real yet so flawed

it feels like
if never good enough
was a person, and it was
you

I see,
you seem,
to like it better,
when I,
tell stories.
So here is,
one for,
you.
Once upon,
a time,
you opened,
your eyes.
Early,
bright,
and full,
of dread.
Pulled yourself,
out of an,
unmade,
bed.
Tripped on,
the mess,
you left.
Stumbled down,
broke your,
neck.
Now you’re,
well,
dead.