Dear Boy,

This is your toy doll speaking. Yes, you know the Barbie you tossed onto the shelf after a month because you grew bored of her? Hey there, that’s me. I’m aware you’re silly biological make-up has programmed you to see me in this manner, but I’d like to alert you that I’m not quite made of plastic. A little box in my chest sings out a never-ending lullaby, sometimes growing in tempo or slowing down. Occasionally it beats out its rhythm so fast it misses a few notes here and there, skipping around on the sheet music. This little box inside my chest told me to trust you with every fiber in my being.

“He’s different than the other boys.” It said. “He’s careful and sweet, he knows how to treat girls like a gentleman.”

You always mumbled out numerous apologies if you thought you might have harmed me even in the slightest. This gave me false hope you see, because I never looked too closely at what lay within. My eyes and the walls you put up had guarded me from anything beyond your exterior appearance. We loved and we laughed and we loved some more. But I guess not even all of my loving could keep you from growing bored.

I gave you gifts and showered you with kisses, but you threw me aside like an old toy you no longer wanted. Just a plastic doll on the shelf. I could patiently await the day you pick me up to play again, but I’m afraid you were mistaken. These “plastic” legs and arms are no longer yours for the taking.

So the next time you go searching for me and my huge heart on the shelf, I’m afraid all you’ll find is an empty space. It’s quite similar to the void you placed in my chest that night. That night you phoned me with some news. I am no longer your muse. So I bid you farewell, and good luck with your issues, because I’m done weeping beside a box of tissues.

Sincerely,

The doll on the shelf