I am torn, that I can distinguish as I lay upon his cot.
My stuffing is all about my mangling body, thrown about in a way that looks ironic. Am I not lying upon my own innards? It's as if I am a victim of a killing, and that this is my dying position.
It is alright, though, for I can watch his arrival through my buttons. His form is blank, his mouth curving downwards in a slight frown. In his hoof is a shiny pin and string.
I pity him, for I can still catch sight of his unnatural infatuation for my own body. It's discouraging and sad to think of how his lust is but a symptom of my Twilight's magic.
Big Macintosh's infatuation is nothing short of faux, faux and soon to quit.
I watch as his hoof lovingly cups about my torn back, lifting my body away from my morbid stuffing and fluff. I watch as his pin clumsily sticks its point into my torso, and I am happy that I cannot cry out in pain.
Mac is mumbling a mantra. It is difficult to distinguish his words, though his dull, droning sound of words comfort my afflicting body, and I am happy.
It is a troubling thing to carry such light joy. I had only had such thrills with my Twilight, my glorious Twilight.
Why did Twilight throw my body away? Why was I to obtain such a ravaging? Can I not function? Was I not a good doll?
Macintosh is pulling my torn cracks, fixing my wounds as lovingly as my filly did. I am filling with such nostalgia that I want to cry, to sob and hold out my arms for a hug in his strong arms.
It is sad, I know, but I carry on as this torturing soul wanting nothing but infatuation. I want physical contact. I want to obtain a pony that will hold my rusting body and sigh nothings to yours truly.
I am a soft sort of doll, old, you might say. but that is why my Twilight did such awful things.
That is alright, though. I am not stupid, contrary to what you might think. I know that all foals grow up. I know that it is nothing but a part of my soul's path.
Mac is stuffing my torso with fluff now, mumbling a comforting word as I think, as I try and classify my thoughts.
I don't want to go through what I had to today. I don't want to fall into a trap of faux joy and infatuation for a random stallion.
My torso is aching, pounding against my fabric skin as I look upon this colt, this glorious, fascinating colt.
His hoof has put down his pin and string upon his floor, and I watch as his mouth starts to grin.
Stallions don't fall for dolls, hardly any colts do anyway. Why is this particular stallion so far from our kind's norm?
I am brought into a loving hug, and I find that his fur is wiry and stiff to my touch, but not awkward. A sort of warmth surrounds my body, a warmth that was at a point so lost to my unsocial soul.
I want to cry out and ask this stallion to go off, to wait in a room apart from this to wait for Twilight's magic to vanish, but I cannot. I can only succumb to his infatuation and fancy. I can only watch as his loving touch morphs into confusion.
With a murmur, Mac climbs into his cot with my body firm against his. A thick, cottony coat is wrapping about us.
Such warmth! Such adoration that I can cling to as Mac rubs his snout against my own, his lips against my torso, but not kissing. His arms hook around my tiny form, and I almost cry out.
I am so happy, so full of infatuation for this loving stallion. I want nothing but him, nothing but that intoxicating warmth and passion.
That nagging thought of him no doubt abandoning my poor soul is nothing short of awful, but it's nothing short of a sad truth.
As Luna's night succumbs to light, so will Mac's infatuation sculpt into callous apathy. I don't know if I can think of it, knowing that his fancy is to finish.
But who am I to harbor such a glum outlook? I should obtain bliss in this opportunity, this flash in my soul's pathway to catch loving inclinations from a pony that that is acting out of his own control. Is that wrong to trail?
As I lay upon Mac's rising and falling torso, I think of a path that I must follow.
I am but a doll, and my wants minor. I can only wish that Mac will throw my body away in a cordial way.
Morning bobs in, and I watch as Mac slowly crawls out of his cot, groaning words. His walk is shaky, and I know that by his quaking body that my Twilight's magic has worn away.
So that's it.
I want to sob, but such an action would stand as a childish action. So I'll just sit upon this cot and drink in my last night in strong arms.
What will my last bit of viability amount to? Am I to just go from farm to library, rotating?
I would carry joy just for my body to atrophy.
A door bursts forth, and I watch as a curious brown dog walks in, panting wildly. It looks around, and spots my poor body lying upon my abandoning stallion's cot.
With a bark of joy, it jumps to my body and lightly picks up my torso into its maw. Its sharp fangs rip my cottony skin, and I am without a cry to complain as saliva dirtying my fur.
So this is how my doom will occur.
I don't mind any. If anything, I am happy that I can absorb its lasting adoration, primal as it is.