Things

Things feel nothing. Empty and emotionless. Bright paint on shelves and books, jolly and sweet. Doesn’t matter how nice they are, how lovely and dear. They won’t care when you are dying. Can’t feel, and that makes it worse. Like their very lack of empathy mocks you and your weakness.

But I can feel. You can do nothing without people, someone to paint the smiles on the china doll faces. I can control my own emotions. No one dresses me up, speaks their words in my mouth, bend my arms like little barbie limbs.

That is why I am better.