Distress Call

She’s back again. She spilled some water. She made me take care of it. Then she began doing other things, and forgot all about me.

I am still lying on the floor, feeling disowned, misused… and she just does not care.

It was not always like this. A long, long time back, she had picked me out of the crowd… me and no else. She had cradled me lovingly in her arms, and shown me off to family and friends. She had kept me close to her heart and I had stuck to her, though sunshine and rain. I have felt her body shake as she laughed and I have had her tears spill all over me.

Later, she slept with me. I was her favorite for bed time. It pleased me that she had a comfortable night because of me. I felt indispensible.

But things changed. She no longer was careful with me or my feelings. She used, misused and abused me. She used me to do petty jobs: remove the stains, clean the desk, the floor and when she had no use for me, she locked me up in a dark empty drawer. But who am I to complain.

I’m just an old shirt, picked out of the mall and now used to wipe the floor.

I’m just the talking shirt who has come to the end of its product life cycle, as she calls it.

I wonder if she realizes, I wonder if she cares: Ms. Hotshot MBA!


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