I see what’s underneath ladies’ skirts; their plump underpinnings and roundness.
I feel shoes scrape across my surface, the feel of a broom and the bold suck of a vacuum
Each piece of me becomes a bit tattered over the days and piece-worn over the years.
Those who made me wove in color and particles of their life; skin from their fingers.
The colors made them exclaim: “How bright the room looks. It’s like a picture!”
I’ve felt writhing, passionate bodies roll onto me when there was no couch, and seen what others would not dare to think. If they asked, “Who?” I would only lie.
I am filled with life, taken for granted and finally wadded up and thrown into a large trash bin
All my memories buried, gone. If they only knew.
But I’ll I can do is lie.