I am a doll. I’m kept in a box and only to be cherished whenever I start to fall apart. I get stitched at torn seams as my pieces begin to separate. Only handled with care when my destruction goes too far. I am held together but my stuffing still shows. When I can, I poke it back in because I don’t want my insides to be seen. I have added patches here and there to hide pieces of myself, to hide scars I don’t want others to see. I have stitched on a smile. It’s permanently there to hide what’s really inside. Sometimes the monster comes along and tries to pry out my stitches but I quickly stitch myself back up and I hide my thread in a tiny bag. Sometimes I get played with. Sometimes I am just taken out to be tossed around. I am a rag doll.