An Ode To My Stuffed Animal

From the early mornings

until the late nights, oh what a sight.

No you don’t bark, 

bark you have never.

But you listen

Like the leaves brushing outside of my window in soft strokes 

Careful not to puncture the barrier that divides two species.

You hear my tears strike my pillow in the

darkest of nights.

And you see my pink cheeks scrunch with 

jubilation at good news. 

And not once do you speak in negative tongue.

Like fruit flies over one plump strawberry oozing sweet, sticky, icky juice.

you remain silent.

You sponge, you,

soaking up my heartache and happiness and grief 

and goals.

You never once forget who I am;

even though I have a plenty.

Your touch, too, is ruffled.

Rough like daddy’s half-shaven beard:

familiar and cozy.

You remind me of my vanilla sugar spray, my lost days, and now my black orchid perfume, a mark on my new ways. 

The way I embrace you by the neck, lacking padding from all the times I’ve squeezed you tight in angst, gives me security.

A golden forcefield, illuminating with flecks of yellow, shines itself around me—and you. 

And suddenly I am




Exempt from the bulky man with brunette hair who shadows me while I sleep, Pain.

Nothing can touch me. 

Nothing can haunt me.

No one can harm me.

You, savior, you.


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