out of her mother's fertility factory she was birthed
item number... i mean, person number one.
a barcode? she had none.
quickly thrown onto a conveyor belt
& then into a box.
in a box she was raised.
no sign of care from the others was conveyed,
despite the box she found herself so uncomfortably stuck in clearly marked
"FRAGILE: HANDLE WITH CARE."
but still they shook the box &
didn't care about it's contents.
they'd throw the box from on stranger to another without concern.
they lit her insides on fire & still questioned why she'd burn.
they watched her whole self to up in flames
& still wondered when she'd return.
& got ****** when her shards cut through their skin,
despite them being the reason why she was so broken.
they kept asking why she was so "softly spoken."
an aptly named adjective after continuously tossing her around
like a soiled tissue on the playground in a little boys hand,
the girls screaming "eww, don't touch me!"
don't touch me. they didn't want to be touched by her,
don't touch me. she didn't want to be touched by them either.
don't. touch. me.
& so they tossed her to the side,
inside the delivery truck to deliver her to her destination
& to the shopkeeper's dismay, this item, i mean person was so broken
"nobody would want this." he said as he frowned
& removed her from the box,
he tossed her in the corner of his storage room, just like the others.
old, forgotten & useless,
with a new label, "DISCARD" written over "FRAGILE: HANDLE WITH CARE."
& discarded she was.
for no one would ever want

a broken soul.