the reindeer

with a missing eye, you got me through childhood.
with no stuffing left—I hugged it all out of you—
a toy had never been so loved. you got left
at the grocery store, in the movie theatre, in the wash
and still, you were always by my side. in the end
you weighed barely a pound, but all my love and insecurities
I poured onto you, so that you could barely hold yourself together.

In the end, you were basically a ball of lint. I almost screamed when I discovered a hole right through your stomach the size of a needle, and then you shed the pounds like water pouring off my back in the tub. I tried to plump you up with small stones and I asked my mom to sew you back up, but that didn’t work either. You were masticated.

I made a bed for you
on the table next to mine. made out of straw,
it must’ve not been too comfortable,
but you never complained. I told you
my secrets—you held my hand as I fell
asleep. I never talked to anyone else
like I talked to you. you always listened.
you were like a death trap; no one could get
information from you.

One day when I was 9, we spent the whole day out in the backyard. I rolled on top of you accidentally, pushing you into tormented grass and sour cream Pringles and orange Kool-Aid and dog shit. I thought I lost you. But I found you outside in the rain three days later. You hadn’t moved an inch. Were you scared like I was?

I brought you to the hospital
when I had my appendix out.
they even let me take you into
the operating room, where they cut
me open like my brother did to a frog
in biology. you got a pink band-aid.
I got a scar.

Sitting in Brad’s van, I thought about you the other day. Where did I leave you? I hope you’re still intact. Even now, the thought of losing you again makes me tear up. I loved you like you were a part of me. I hope Yoda didn’t get you. You might be covered in slobber in some sewage drain somewhere, if he did.

I thought you were it for me.
I thought we were a perfect match.
I thought no one could love me better.
But we all grow up.