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As I’m thrown to the bedroom floor,

I wonder why I’m treated so badly?


From the mashed, mouldy banana

to the three day old sandwich

buried in my depths,

to the dog eared books

and chewed pencils

scattered in all my pockets.


Why am I hated?

I have scars all over me,

a result of years of being dragged,

kicked, thrown and shoved


just to be cruelly stitched

back together again

to keep me going for what

my supposed friend calls the “school year”.


Why am I disliked?


Is it because I spend most of my time

in the place they despised

or the memories woven into my seams.


By Lia Butler