The Weighted Raincoat

Knowing I once liked being held
in the warmth of a soul,
they stitched me a raincoat,
bright with impossible colors,
so I may always be found,
though I could have hidden
beneath the bashful downpour
of their own dry emotions.
They come to me,
sit beside me,
crack open a can,
and tell me to bide my time.
It takes so little to undo me
a few careful words of kindness,
and I become a toy
waiting for the pull of its string.
They pull,
and I unravel.
I listen as they empty themselves,
like buckets brimming with emotions,
overflowing into me,
while they call their grief a desolation
and their loneliness unique.
When I have carried enough weight,
when I grow pensive,
when I become a sober, sinking ship,
the overwhelmed animal,
they stroke my head,
feed me just enough tenderness
to keep me tame,
and ask me to listen again,
to solve their deep contemplations,
to think only as a tool
fashioned for their cruel hands.
The raincoat never keeps me dry.
It only lets them recognize
another empty bucket,
so they pour in all their anguish,
all their misery,
and leave me drifting
in search of another shore.