You push me,
shout at me,
pull me around
like I exist as a form of playdough;
one which molds at your touch,
like you are my creator,
and I, just your masterpiece.
Like I am an object,
some plastic, a bit of wire.
Even if that may be,
even if you reduce me to
be held in the eyes of a child,
is that all I am?
Am I not more?
Does a child not feel?
How is a child’s love any less than yours?
How am I any less worthy?
I am not a ball of dough.
I am not to be rolled around.
To be pushed;
to be shoved.
I will not let your words penetrate me.
I will stay guarded;
I will not unravel under the thread of your fingertips;
I will only be picked apart by my own.
Like the last breath of a flickering bulb,
those sweet sorrow seconds of a candle
right before the flame dies down.
I am a flame, and I will be fire,
and I will not be stopped.
yes i did just write an unironically deep poem about a personified bot it. yes that's just who i am.