I delete almost every word I write
As though I can eradicate the feeling.
But I can't. It doesn't work.
Nothing changes. And nothing feels right.

I don't know what it's like to be you
But for me,
I am sitting in this room,
With all the people I love,
And I want to cry myself to sleep in the middle of the day.

They don't notice that I'm here
But the second I go to leave they cry out.
I'm the elf on the shelf,
Or the cookies you leave out for Santa.
You know he won't eat them, I mean,
**** - he's not even real.
But you can't not have them there.
That would be wrong.
I am your favourite piece of furniture.

Discard me, and get it over and done with.
It's more humane than making me sit here and watch you live your life.