I play with my rabbit
every day, sometimes twice.
Often, I wish it velveteen,
as real as the smack
of a riding crop
as I rock my mount,
ridden wet, and hard.
Not every toy was meant to be
velveteen.
The streams never crossed,
left alone and solitary
in my toy box.
For you, I was only a plaything,
Never meant to be made real.
Bunnies can break.
Your mechanical heart needs winding.
You box me up,
your discarded toy,
that bored you,
displeased you.
My answers were always wrong.
I never learned to tell
the fairy tales quite
the way you wanted.
I'm just another locked toy box,
left out for whoever might want
a broken, discarded plaything,
a rag doll waiting for a new master.
Find it here.
