Them.

I am a collection of carving tools, made from stone.

They were a neglected piece of masonry, buried in the shadow of slums, a surprising and small light in the face of a growing darkness.

I beheld them, listening to them speak their pleas of pity, their cries to be cherished, a seemingly foreign concept.

Only those mere supplications were untruthful.

I took my time to carve them into something admirable, something that was statuesque and graceful.

Reborn once more into a mask of my own naive design.

Although I had built them with devotion, eyes blind with yearning and infatuation.

…

I broke…

Shattering and crumbling under the weight of their sins, eroding away from the constant use of my character.

I have become chipped, scraped, cracked, and shattered over and over again...

Only to be always put back together by their unfinished hands, before they break me again.

By the end, I have dwindled into dust, blown away into the wind, and atom amongst atoms.

Although they are something better than they were before, I remember…

I carved them.

And they are still just a stone and forever will be such.