I was given to you as a gift.
There was meaning attached to me.
I waited, listening to the sounds of tearing paper,
as you unwrapped me.
I could barely breathe as your fingers
removed the final layer, a thin, almost translucent
sheet of delicate paper.
Then you touched me.
You lifted me into the air
shaking the folds from
my body.

I understood in that moment
that I was made for you.
I would do my best
to keep you warm
and comfort you.
I heard you say,
“Thank you. It’s my favorite color.
I love it.”
The one that gifted me
spoke.
“Try it on.”

I’ve been with you ever since.
I’ve conformed
to the shape of you.

On that fateful
day I was there.
When the one
who gifted me,
shattered the world.

The words pierced flesh.
Fragile and unsuspecting,
your core ruptured.
I felt the shards of it.
I couldn’t protect you.
I tried.
I held you close.

Your hands, once gentle,
now savage,
tore me from
your body.
You cast me aside.
I lay, crumpled on the floor,
cold,
alone,
confused,
discarded.