Why I Hate Stuffed Animals

I was nine years old

When my parents cleaned out the house.

Divorce, it was time to move.

I was sitting on the front porch steps,

(The ones that had been washed so many times

By spring thunderstorm rain while we watched,

Safe under the roof in lawn chairs)

I caught the crooked eye of a derelict teddy bear

Positioned haphazardly on a bulk of trash;

It’s mouth halfway unstitched, it’s nose broken.

Though it was alive I’d never seen it before.

                (How could I miss it? All of mine were

                Individually named, with back stories and

                Regularly scheduled hugging.)

I snuck the teddy bear up to my room.

We cried together, me out of pity,

He, out of fear, until I named him,

And added him to the hugging rotation.

                (My therapist, so far removed but

                So far in my head, would say: “Do you

                Think you found yourself that day?”)