In the depths of my closet remain the memories of a time where I was the daughter of a man that shares my DNA, where I was more than just the remnants of a sperm donor with a temporary marriage license. Behind old shoes of various brands from various phases I’ve gone through, blankets kept away for colder days, and a resting place of misfit objects that have found refuge at the bottom of a closed area, you can find a box. Tucked away, in poor condition, left for the ghosts of loved ones past, you’ll find various things that would be better off forgotten; birthday cards, torn up pictures, letters of hatred and sadness, and poems consisting of the very same thing.

But, underneath those tortured items of what seem to be another life, you’ll find the Dutchess County Fair. Of course, not the whole fair, for that would be impossible to fit into a box. Or, would it? Either way, that’s a thought for another day, another set of memories.

Today, though, you find what the Dutchess county Fair means to me. In the brightest of pinks, the softest of fabrics, and the rarest of happy memories – there it lies. Torn up into pieces – both arms broken off and laying beside it – the most tragic symbolism you’ll ever find for the way everything has fallen apart since the day this was won for me by a man that should have been trying to win my respect instead.

If your hands move toward the memory, don’t be frightened. It’s as damaged as I am. Cuts; cuts everywhere from various nights of my anger holding onto a pair of scissors. Words; words of pure hatred carved into the stomach of the poor memory, all directed at the reason I have it, the reason I live with it. In its pink, broken, torn up form at the bottom of that box is everything in life I’ve ever been because of that man.

Sew it back together? Of course, it’s possible, but it will never be the same – just like me. But, at the end of the day, the pink fuzzball of stuffing and fabric, of disaster, is the only one that knows the pain of being in this life because of that man.

Winner, winner, winner! Pick your next victim.