Disintegrating Significance

I lie in your drawer beside others like me—socks all peacefully awaiting your call. Light peaks through the narrow opening revealing the intriguing colours of your room. Light form the sunrise shining in the window and the smell of morning dew filling the room mean it’s my time to unfold and stretch out. Every day I provide you warmth and comfort as you slip me on before your shoes to go partake in your casual yet careless activities. I’m filled with meaning, and I bring something positive to your life. I also have your foot, which fills my empty void. Something I’d only ever dreamed of before my purchase, before the discovery of my purpose. You’re aware of my importance; without me, your foot would be bare of love.

The cycle continues. Each day I wait for you to open the drawer and make your selection - hoping today is the day I get to be along with you. Each time you slip me on, no matter what, I feel loved and close to you. I watch you go into the world, and I'm there with you for everything you do. The support I offer resonates within you while you walk the way of life with me by your side.

Then you return home, and you put me away to rest and wait for another good day. I know I mean something to you. I know that I have become a part of your routine, and I know that at the end of the day, you’ll throw me away into the wash so that you can enjoy my company once again. Then every once in awhile, you’ll forget me between the crack of your bed or in the hem of your pants, but it’s okay; I always find my way home.

Throughout time, after each wash, I begin to wear-out; however, my fading threads don’t take away my value. My disintegrating seams still desire your presence, your warmth. Because of my well-used layers, I unintentionally allow air to linger inside my secure hug. I’m still holding on, for I will not my unwoven, deteriorating soul prevent my care. Oh—but you’ve forgotten me today and tomorrow and the next day. You’ve let my weakened soul become significant to you; you don’t want the imperfect. You no longer feel like I am worthy of you anymore. I lay there waiting and hoping that you will come back to me, but each day I watch you open the drawer from the back where the sunlight doesn't quite reach, and I watch as you select every other pair. You’re back, yet it is not to throw me in the wash this time, but to throw me in the trash. A cold, lifeless prison made for the unwanted. I lie upon food for maggots—I am food for maggots. Through the bars I smell your repulsive odour and see your disgusting features. The joyfulness of your room has completely disappeared leaving nothing but a monochrome of grey. I was the mask that covered the brat. In your life, I was truly nothing but an accessory. You’re careless with me, just as you are with your life. Like you are invincible, you move through your life without pausing to smell the flowers. I’m the flowers that you have taken for granted.

Perhaps this is just a cycle to you, but to me it was so much more. You provided me with a purpose, with meaning. You allowed me to be given the opportunity to mean something before I succumbed to the nothingness of insignificance. I know you will move on, I was simply one of hundreds of pairs, but know that to me, you were my everything and I apologize I couldn't return that kind of meaning to you.