It’s face was the used pages of a diary,
all bleeding ink and bent corners.
Voice like a scratched record,
no one to listen to it.
A dried ink pen for a spine,
chewed up brittle plastic.
With a brass locket for a heart,
hung on tangled chain and empty of sentiment.
It peered at me with mica-flake eyes,
squinting into fluorescent light.
I paid it with a copper penny to suckle,
closed the drawer to no complaint.
My memory smelled like cedar and lint,
felt like a knuckle in the eye.