I was dropped into your crib by some unknown relative.
You reached your grasping hands out, curious.
Your finger, whether by chance or want, chose me.
You pulled me close, and I was enveloped by immediate love.

I, at first, had to put with spilling, nibbiling, teething, clutching,
But it was okay because I loved you.
Then as you learned to walk, you didn’t want to leave me alone,
Dragging me along behind, my arm growing damp and warm in your hand.
At night, we’d share a pillow and plan our next tea party.

As you learned to fear the dark, and the monsters lurking there,
I was the one who stood watch by your side, waiting for the warm fingers of dawn.
When I could no longer stave off the demons and they crept into your mind,
I was the one who heard your frantic midnight whispers.
I was the one you later told your dreams and nightmares to.

Slowly, very slowly, you started to leave me out.
I was no longer allowed to hug you when you needed it most.
When your friends dropped by, I was hurriedly stuffed into a drawer.
I no longer breathed in your breath as we slept.
Though you’re too old for monsters, I still stand guard, and I always will.

Now, you’re and adult, or so you say.
You drink. You drive. You do things you shouldn’t.
I sit on a shelf, dusty, unable to clean myself without you.
You couldn’t put me in storage; we share too much.
It’s fine we don’t snuggle anymore; you’ve found someone with a pulse.
?