The Old Doll

Old, worn broken.
My dirty blonde hair and my dress which is as blue as the summer sky,
Covered in layers upon layers of dust.
I’m broken and torn but they always stitch me back together,
It makes me feel timeworn, used.

I don’t know how I ended up in this dusty, dark, dusky closet.
To me, this closet is a prison.
All I can do is remember.
I remember the laughs, the stories, the jokes, the tears.
We shared it all.
But then again, that’s long in the past.

Old, worn broken.
That’s what I am as I sit in this dirty, cold closet.
I am always grateful of the times I spent with her,
My owner.

I know one day I will be thrown out,
Like all the memories we shared.
Since I’m just an old doll.
Old, worn, broken.