I was once a doll

Has it ever occurred to you that I am a living, breathing human, with feelings of my own? I doubt it. To you, I've always been something akin to a live doll, that walks and talks and breathes, but possesses no capacity to experience emotions of any kind; you were under the impression that you could do whatever you wished, and I'd willingly bend into submission. I was just an experiment. You could dictate nearly every action of mine. My feelings were nothing short of a joke. You could play with them like they were insignificant toys, just the way you played your cruel, harsh game with me, your adorable little doll.

Oh yes, you'd pretend to care on the countless occasions during which I shed tears, but of course you didn't. I was your doll. You could give me even the most blatant of all lies, and if you wished, I'd believe it. I was a plaything. You'd watch carelessly as I stumbled and fell, not caring to help me get on my feet again. I existed for the sole purpose of your happiness. My own had no importance whatsoever. Who cared what happened to me anyway?

And for some silly reason, I let this happen.


 I still continue to be mesmerized by the empty words that escape your lips, accompanied by your cold, pretentious voice.

But I've promised myself that I'll never be the doll again. And I wish you'd fall off a cliff. It'd make my life a whole lot easier; I wouldn't have to experience the longing and pain that ensues whenever you strike up old conversations, day after day.