I miss when you were small,
when we played forever—
every day a sunlit hymn
of learning, growing, loving.
But you outgrew me.
I watched the love drain
from your eyes like spilled milk,
felt your gaze turn to embers,
hot with something like hate.
Now I sit abandoned
in this dollhouse—
a relic, a tomb.
The spiders weave their silk
over my hollow limbs,
the mold blooms black
in the corners where we once whispered.
I thought I was precious.
Now I know the truth:
I was only ever a toy.
The walls, once glossy pink,
are plastic glaciers.
The carpet, soft as a lullaby,
now bristles with broken needles.
Was it always meant to be this way?
Did you ever love me,
or just the idea of me—
something to hold
until you grew strong enough
to crush?
The Stones Bleed Like Me 