there are days i feel less like a person and more like a possession, owned in some way by phantom hands

it was unbeknownst to me that i had ever been purchased, there have been occasional rentals, used and using in symbiotic fashion for pleasures or as a stop gap measure to beat the loneliness for a stretch or two

the out of the blue phone call or text in the middle of the night

promises of sweaty entanglements with none of that messy emotional investment

retired into obscurity until the next mister right becomes last year’s model of infidelity and they remember old faithful sitting all alone and decide to watch the geyser erupt

more mannequin than man, more puppet than puppeteer

admiring the fact that i remain a homeosexual, preferring to let things happen naturally over time than pursuing or pressuring

the tectonic plate, not the fine china

but most of the time is spent gathering dust on the shelf, watching as the price tag steadily becomes a graveyard for past allowances

half off of half off of half off until the math gets muddled and the scratched out prices bleed through defining a sense of self worthlessness as a black smudge of over saturated not so magic markings

sitting dog eared at the resale shop, affecting a near proximity to hopeful as the shoppers preuse the wares, hoping to be seen but plain enough like a natural camouflage that eyes travel over without ever being drawn to

no one ever picks me up, checked my stitching to see if i was viable for more than a chew toy for canine slobbery

watching with remorse as another day ends and the bins are straightened, the final check before lights are turned off and the sign is flipped to closed, the bell ringing it’s swan song of another day of commerce

more historical landmark than viable purchase at this point so far down the road from fresh faced and wide eyed

a second hand misfit, mislabled and never given a true second chance, tertiary disregard until the moment someone looks my way, then a quick sleight of hand and misdirection towards another miscreant of misanthropic adoration

i’m a mascot for lonely hearts, a flag flying at half mast for the disinterested masses, branded slightly irregular and on sale for a nickel, this week only

the pawn of pawn shop ettiquette and misperceptions, owned by disinterested owners that only own when someone else comes calling

one day the stitches will fray and the stuffing that leaks out will pour forth onto the scuffed floor beneath

i dream of such days as i sit perched on the edge of the shelf, shiny new price tag covering the ragged hole in my chest, watching the cars drive by in the distance, headed to better tomorrow or running away from today’s new yesterday

better than waiting for the hands that claim to claim me that never materialize in front of these material eyes

just another misguided guidebook of unintentional guarded disregard

a possession not a person, a poor man’s approximation of emaciation and proximity mines, mine to mine and sluice toxicity into the ever flowing waters of what ifs and never weres

beware the wares housed on shelves, shelved and hidden, left to slowly decay in endless states of dismay