WALKING MANNEQUIN

I am a walking mannequin, fallen from the hands of its owner at an auction, shattered and scattered across a floor buried with pretty ugly stones. Glued together, I walk, but no longer are my steps, like a runway model, glamorous and eye-catching. I limp, waddling across rooms as one who's lost half his body to a stroke. I function, only not quite the same as before. A joy, not just any kind, but one of a type, has been taken from me. I will never be the same. It's too sad. I will never be the same. The point of living is lost, not because of my wounded motor reflex, but for the heart that will never come back, one so loving it's a rarity.