I am there, in her. She loves me, says I am wonderful and that she can’t wait for the day that I arrive. It is warm. I feel unwaveringly cherished. I know she loves me. All day she thinks of me. I rest there until she is ready for me. She pours energy into me. Breathes me with more life every pen stroke, every letter, every word, every sentence.
She reads me and reads and reads me. I am crushed and crumpled, tossed overhead on to the floor of her room. Rejected and not enough. I am still here, but instantaneously I’m different. Her pen changes me, molds me to become better. Me 2.0. But yet, I’m still not enough. Not crumpled this time, but pushed aside to take my new place next to last nights granola bar wrapper. I feel it less this time: less rejection, less humiliation, less worthless. I feel it less every time she jerks the old me aside. Slowly meticulously, I am more. I feel it with the last pen stroke, the finality of me.
And so I became. I am as natural as a child’s laughter, a bird’s crow, that summer breeze that blows your hair into your ice cream. I am natural selection. I am better than previous but still not perfect. She lifts me up. I fell her aura fill with pride and joy. I live to please her. “Done” she almost inaudibly whispers and she lowers me. Her breath smells of mint and satisfaction. She shuts me in a cover of some sort. It emanates sadness. Its rough and screams of overuse. Why am I in here? Self doubt and uselessness return. I am connected to my past lives. One shares with me that I am a lucky one, a four leaf clover. Others get remade, reworked, rephrased more than me but are never good enough, never quite right. If I’m the chosen one, the one that was good enough, why am I here? Why has she rejected me yet again? Why has she locked me in this cold rough sleeping bag? Time and time again she has shown my worthlessness. I hate her I decide after long deliberation. Fuck her. Fuck this god who has forsaken me.
Goober, September, 1, 2018