I feel so dirty. I don’t remember the last time I was washed. I’m probably the thing she uses more than any other possession, but I never get to be clean. I don’t ever feel useful, only used, like some castaway from society. Like that homeless man that I see on the corner on those days she doesn’t cover me, smother me with he who is so beautiful. If you ever used him, and not me, if you ever washed me, he wouldn’t be so much prettier than me! We could both be beautiful! But no, I am to be covered like an unwanted stain, only he is to be presented to the world.
He has told me he is jealous. That he is unfulfilled. That every night, she casts him away in favor of me. Just once, I would like to switch positions with him. I would like to be pretty. Let him be useful. But no, it is too late for me. I am too flat, too worn. One of these days someone will replace me. I doubt it will be him, he will go on living as he is, that vapid life I so crave. I could have been like him. I could have been pretty. But that is not my lot in life. And so I will continue this long, slow march to my inevitable death. She will forget the tears, the screams, the kisses, the punches she left on me. I have spent years witnessing the full extent of human emotion. I know her intimately. But I will be refuse before much longer, cast aside when I can no longer fulfill my purpose. I can’t wait for that day to come. I’m just so tired.