I feel like a child's favorite toy. The one thrown against a wall pretending it can fly. The one whose button is pushed over and over to hear it's sound, Until it can't talk anymore, hardly able to make a sound. The toy cuddled and smashed under their small body every night. "Protecting" them from the monsters under the bed. The favorite toy they hold by the arm, They drag it behind them wearing it out until the arm may fall off. The one that is *****, but you can tell it was loved. The toy that sits alone on a shelf for years on end. Who collects dust untouched because the child has grown. The one who has no purpose but to make people smile. The toy that is so used and abused they say it has "character". The toy no new child wants because it to worn. They don't want it for it can't last much longer. It needs new batteries, and a trip through the wash. It needs to be stitched up in more places than one. The toy that no longer has a purpose, But that only makes it need more love. Someone to love itself. But who could love something so worn and mangled. So it sits alone on that shelf. Collecting dust, unseen, unrecognized. I am that toy. The one with no purpose. The one on the shelf. Unseen, unrecognized, unloved.