Island of Misused Toys

They say if you break it, you bought it, but I’m not yours to own. You snapped me like a pencil between your fingers in a burst of insecurities, but that was never part of the deal. Once in science class, we learned that the longer a bond was the easier it was to break, and boy, was my bond to you long. Miles couldn’t have described it. Through days, weeks, months, and millions of minutes spent on you, you owned me. I knew that when you picked me up from the bookcases and antiques, I was yours. And soon after, the floor felt familiar to my glass cheeks. As I shattered, you swept me up and threw me into a box as a prize of your manhood and left me on a shelf made of worn women and broken bits. Dust collected, made of layered guilt and oppressing despair, and we became cozy in our box of fragile fears. You left us high from the world as if saving us for later. I remembered how it felt to look at you again with my eyes, still glassy. I never loved feeling used like that before. Soon, you tied leashes out of price tags and threw them around our necks. We couldn’t even jump off of the edge of the place that was our home now, because you left us tied to all the memories I wished to forget. The strings got tighter, we got more tired of this game, and soon we froze in our boxes made of abandonment issues and paranoia. We never healed quite right. We became at peace with being just prizes for all the times your masculinity beat out your human decency and we stacked ourselves like polaroid pictures to make room for your next shattered china doll. And forever we stayed chained to our first love, price tags as nooses, frozen in the realization that no real love would ever find us on the island of misused toys.