Consolation Prize

Remember the little street fairs that would roll through town with the horribly unsafe rides and the rigged games? Sure, you always tried to win the big pink teddy bear, but somehow wound up with a tiny stuffed monkey instead. Well guess who’s the tiny stuffed monkey?

That’s me. I’m just a consolation prize. I am the toy that no one wants – but keeps anyway to play with a few times and then throw away. That’s me.
I have been asked to be a mistress. I’ve been asked to be the girl on the side. Friends with benefits? Sure, that too.

But I don’t want any of that.

I just want to be cherished. Is that too much to ask? Am I doomed to be the consolation prize the rest of my life?

When I was finally asked to be a girlfriend, he confessed to me that he let his sexual urges get the better of him. You see, he didn’t really want me, he wanted my body. It was nice of him not to sleep with me though.

A two year pattern is no longer a series of unfortunate coincidences. I think somewhere around the two year mark it becomes fact. And the fact of the matter is my sparkling personality doesn’t mean shit.