I'm not pretty. I'm old and ragged, have shaggy hair and a blind eye. I can still remember the bygone time when I was... different. And loved.
The motives of my falling lack all logic. One day you're the favorite, the one who can protect and be trusted and who is promised a life and a place as the eternal companion. Then you find yourself alone, at first in some comfortable corner, covered by a thin layer of dust, suddenly inside a box or behind the furniture along with spiders and cockroaches.
Of course that's a cliché. All of it. But that doesn't make it the less painful. Or the less absurd.
As I said, I was loved. And of course I also loved in return. My love was so strong, so pure, so eager to probe itself that one night I lost control and kissed my master. A long , desperate kiss. And then, wanting more, wanting the both of us to be one, I bit a little, then a little more, and then... as I said, I lost control.
I didn't ate a lot. Just a little of the face, maybe a finger too.
And nobody played with me ever again.