I always wished she would talk to me about things. She often closed off from me and turned bitter, the harsh words rolling off her tongue like honey. But they were the opposite of sweet. It always seemed as if there was some sort of wall separating us, pulling us apart.
"What are you working on now?" I pondered, daring to look over her shoulder as she concentrated one evening. "Nothing," she lied, covering the paper with her arm, barely glancing up at me. I always sighed when she said things like that, giving up. I often wondered if she needed me around, or even wanted me there. There was a point in time where she used to look at me like I mattered.
See, I've always seen things like this: When someone loves you, they're supposed to find you more beautiful than anything else. She was an artist, and would tell me I was more entrancing than any painting in the world. I used to be able to stand in front of any view and the first thing she would say was always about me. That was the way I knew she loved me. But I suppose that feeling wore off after a while. As time went by she began to talk about the trees and the violent patterns in the sea. She no longer talked about the stars in my eyes, but instead looked toward the ones in the sky. My skin wasn't softer than cotton anymore. A wilted, crushed flower seemed like it was a better sight than me. Anything but me.
Yet for some reason, I still stayed because I loved her more than anything. I tried to imagine life without her but couldn't. I just wanted to know what made her stop feeling for me. Was it something I had done?
I often slept all day because dreaming seemed so much better than reality. Every time I woke up, a feeling washed over me that broke my heart and filled it with misery before sewing it back up and throwing it away. I read almost every book in the house, but none of them gave me knowledge or strength that might help me with her. I've tried to find words of wisdom and peace but had no luck. I lived inside the life of someone broken, someone trapped inside her own mind.
Were there rules about love? Were you supposed to let someone go after a while like an old toy? Did feelings burn out just like used matches? But even if those things were true, they were transferred to other places. Toys were reused, the flame on matches became a warm fire in a loving household. They were all made for bigger things or better purposes.
But I was just a toy belonging to a child that couldn't be reused, couldn't be salvaged. I was the toy who had been thrown away. Left to decompose and become nothing. But what if it took the unthinkable to turn her around? Maybe love could still be saved, still be salvaged. Still be warm.
