a poem ,pov of a stuffed toy.

this poem is a pov of a stuffed toy to a young girl.

"He's my bestie!!"
you say at three,
hosting a tea party
where you feed me Play-Doh
I can't taste.
When pink dough sticks
in my seams,
you cry
and run to Mom--
"I'll wash him up."
At nine,
Nightmares shake you awake.
You hold me so tight
your tears sink deep
into my fur.
You beg the dark to stop.
I wish I could whisper
that it will.
Thirteen comes,
and I sit on the edge
of your bed,
untouched.
I hear the shouting,
the breaking voices.
I see you reach for it.
I want to scream
for you to put the blade down,
to tell you you'll survive this--
but stuffing
has no sound.
At fourteen,
Keith is gone.
You pick that up and inhale,
a cloud leaving your lips.
I don't know
what it means,
only that it pulls you
farther away.
At fifteen,
you sleep with me again.
You call me your baby.
You use that often,
and cry the way you did
when you were nine--
small, shaking, scared.
Are the nightmares back,
or is life just heavier?
Sixteen now,
and you lie with me all day.
No more it,
no more that,
just tears
over a boy
who doesn't see
what I've always seen--
that you are soft,
and hurting,
and trying
so hard
to grow.