I feel like that old porcelain doll in the corner, the one whose head has snapped off and no one's bothered to glue it back on. The one whose dress is tattered and muddied without ever anyone giving it a second glance – that's me. But I look around, touch myself, analyze, and realize that I'm fine. It's everyone else that's the problem.

The only one who cares about me, the only one that tries to reattach my head and mend my dress, is in almost the same situation as I. She is a rag-doll, her own head is holding on by very loose threads and those that play with us treat her so horribly because they find her with me – the reject.

If she spends less time with me, then maybe the puppeteer will treat her like one of the beautiful marionettes that dance and play on stage all day. So I hide the open seams that she cannot see so that she does not try to stitch them, so that her burden is lessened. It is all I can do for her. I am greedy and cannot push her away. But she is the only nice one.

Besides, if the worst of me is patched up, the rest might just fix itself. Scars will be left, there is no doubting that. But at least I will be whole again. And she will not be broken in my place.


Author Notes: I'm not quite sure if this could connect to anyone, because I'm writing it in hindsight with about 5 years between me and when I had these feelings, but I hope it helps. In short, I was psychologically bullied and my mom tried to help me, but she got a lot of grief about it from my dad. I'm pretty good now, though there are some days that I swear I have a vendetta against the bullies of my past. Just remember, all things shall pass.