Teddy.

She loved me once. I can barely remember the last time she held me, let alone touch me. I don't even know how soft I am anymore. I sit on her dresser, making friends with the dust bunnies who grow behind her piggy bank and wait for the moment she sees me again. Every day, she walks past me and I hold my breath for just a glance in my direction. I get none and I'm suppose to be okay with that.

There was a time where she couldn't go to bed without me. She'd cry if Mother stole me to wash me and then complain that I didn't smell the same. I wasn't suppose to smell like roses and buttercup blossoms. She couldn't explain it, but I knew what she meant. I always did. I remember what she smelled like. Peanut butter and fresh chocolate chip cookies. Her laugh is a faint hum in my ears. I never hear her laugh anymore.

I try to remind myself that I'm just a bear. I'm stuffed for a reason so I shouldn't care. I see her now, twice the size she was, with pink hair and metal in her mouth. She rolls her eyes and curses now. She was so sweet and small. Like me. I'm old now, with more stuffing in my left leg than my right. One blue button for an eye because the dog thought I was his toy. I never found my other eye. She stopped looking for it years ago. Maybe I should too. 

She tosses in her sleep now, mumbling and sweating. I watch with distress, hoping the nightmares would leave her alone. All I do is sit and watch, in tormented agony, knowing I can't do anything from the neglected prison she left me in. I know she would sleep better with me, she always did. 

I haven't slept in years.