He doesn't dream of me, but of sweeter things. Unblemished things. Girls who dream actual dreams and don't prefer nightmarish scenes.
Grotesque is my thing - an ugly ragdoll falling apart at the seams. Your dream girls are porcelain beauties, dolls housed in collections of collectors who collect the finer things.
How valiant of an effort it must've been to pick me up out of that rusted trash bin. Dust me off, stitch me up.
Repair me, build me back up until you had enough of my hard luck and wanted to give me up.
You threw me down the stairs, now I am in disrepair- more broken than where I left off before you picked my bruised and battered body up.
I didn't ask for you to try to fix what you could not undo. No, you do not deserve a thank you.
Your attempt became meaningless once you decided you were through with my frayed edges and torn parts.
Where you first thought I was a diamond in the rough, you've since found that under the pressure I just simply combust. And you wanted something sparkling with beauty marks.
I'm a burden to your hobbies, a cross placed upon your body, useless and outdated but too depreciated to be considered unique.
Devoid of any kind of value, that's why doubt and hesitation surround you when it comes to me. Other girls are exquisite limited editions.
I know you want to display a trophy case and not a wall of shame. That's why I won't place the blame. You are not the reason I am lame.
There was a malfunction at the factory where they manufactured me. But now this is just part of my design and not even a spool of time could patch me.
You are so inexperienced, you need a seamstress, you are in over your head. You've already run out of thread. Stop trying to tie up loose ends, some things are not meant to mend.
Sweet dreams honey, go back to bed.