I Was Loved Once

So this was supposed to be light hearted, but it got really depressing.

I remember back before I got tossed aside. Back when she loved me, said I was her favorite. She always kept me near, no matter where she was going. At her side, traveling to all corners of the globe like a treasure. She called me Glide, I don’t really know why, but it made me happy to hear it coming from her. She would show me off to her friends and talk about how amazing I was, how she was so glad she found me in the bookstore that day in May. She’d gone in for a book, and came out with me along with it.

            I remember that book. She used to let me talk about it, let me leave notes in the margins. Notes about the quotes that meant the most to her and about what that part of the story seemed to me. She let me write about the plot and the characters, anything that jumped out at her really. She read that book eight times that summer, and always with me close by. By the end of it all there was not a margin left empty, and there were sticky notes on every page with more of my notes.

            She loved me back then. I was the one that could come up with the words she couldn’t say out loud. From me spewed the stories that filled every notebook she owned. I gave her a voice when no one else let her speak. When she was down she relied on me to bring her joy again. And when she was happy I was there to see every moment of it.

            But it ended, slowly at first, then all at once. I had moments when my ink refused to run. Where she had to run me over the top of the page in loops before it came back. And then one day, it didn’t come back anymore. There was no ink left, nothing to create her words, nothing to show her that I still loved her. Without ink I had no purpose, I was just an empty plastic shell with a little animal stuck to my head. I didn’t matter anymore.

            I found a new home in the drawer of her desk. I only saw her in the rare moments that she went digging for someone else, the ones that didn’t get names. The ones that meant nothing because she could buy them in packs of twenty. But I didn’t mean anything either. I was useless, alone.

            From time to time she would look down and smile at me. It was as if she was remembering how much she used to love me. But she never picked me up. She never reached out to touch my surface. She never removed me from the dark drawer. I would remain forever alone in the place. Surrounded by the things that were dull and all the same. I was different, but that didn’t matter anymore. She used them, the ones that were all the same.

Reviews

[Maggie]

I think this is my favorite piece of all the new things you've done

[Krisen Lison]

Thanks, it was a prompt I found on tumblr that i found so i just went with it