I am a Mrs. Potato head,
and you are a three year old.
When you are frustrated at your mommy,
you take my legs and twist them round and round.
They spin until the peg that holds them in place wears down
and they no longer stay put.
When you can’t have more animal crackers,
you take my arms and throw them across the room
leaving me completely and utterly defenseless.
When you are bored in front of the TV,
you suck and teethe on my eyes
until I am blind to a world separate from you.
When you are feeling artsy
you use your favorite red marker and scribble across my nose
until I am bleeding cherry scented ink.
And when you are feeling angry.
Throwing a tantrum of epic proportions,
you take my plastic body
and slam me against the table
until I am covered in bruises.
Then you go down for your nap,
tape my legs in place,
find my arms and pop them in,
wipe the slobber off my eyes,
and attempt to clean up the marker.
You say that you’re sorry.
You say you feel bad for treating me the way you did.
In the end I forgive you.
What else am I going to do?
You are the sentient being, after all.
The one with a brain, and feelings, and a heart...
I just want you to know
that the dents will never go away,
the red will never totally disappear,
and I will never ever stop smelling that stupid, revolting cherry.