On being a person

When I was little,
I had a friend;
round,
red,
"the size of my growing fist" — page 47
of my science book had said.

He lived in my chest,
but mostly sat on one of my shoulders, or
on the top of my head;
He loved to tell me stories. And I loved to listen.
He spoke with so much love,
such raw
and intense passion, that I couldn't help but fall
very much in awe of him, I was Smitten.

It was him, actually, that taught me the meaning of that word.

Time
brought in another character to the picture,
His name was — The World;
A charmer,
an enchanting, ageless man; The World
lived in that Land
where you shift after your free trial period ends;

In the earlier stages of my acquaintance with him,
My old friend sat in my mouth,
The World
with his bewildering personality, and
a complete lack
of moral backbone, and a vigorous knack
for pretense — was surely taking its sweet,
SWEET time in becoming my friend:
all
in perfect accordance
with his mysterious plans;

My old friend meanwhile, was now on my sleeves,
Desperate, I'd pour him out
for anyone who looks like they drink;
My relationship with him was suffering
Tremendously;
I locked him away, deep
inside the ribcage,
all I cared about now was figuring out how
to "Develop Alliances" with The World,
how to "Cultivate Connections", how to "Synergize";

My old friend was hurt.
He refused
to talk to me when I went to him crying,
He sent me away. I
woke up to a small, folded slip passed outside
the bars of the cage.
He sat in there, holding his knees,
facing the other way.

"Try stories" it said, "Tell The World Stories.
That's how we became friends, didn't we?"