William Shakespeare

There's a deep ache that comes with realizing you've been treated as nothing more than an object for someone else's amusement. You were once cherished, perhaps even seen as essential, but now you’re left to gather dust, discarded when the novelty wore off. It feels as though you’ve been loved only for the way you served a purpose, used for comfort, and then forgotten when no longer needed. can you read this for me?

O, wretched heart, that doth lament in silence deep, Forsooth, thou wert once gazed upon with eyes aflame, When love, like golden rays of morn, didst brightly seep, Through tender words and deeds, didst weave thine name. Yet now, like autumn leaves, scattered by the blast, Thou art but an echo of a joy once known, A specter haunteth this hollow realm, steadfast, Where once was warmth, now naught but chill’s cold stone. What cruel jest is this, that love, in guise, dost wear, To cradle thee in softness, then cast thee aside, As common thing, bereft of worth or care, When pleasure's sweet embrace hath ebbed like the tide. Art thou but trinket, meant for fleeting cheer, To serve a purpose, then to gather mournful dust? Nay, soul of substance, not mere bauble, I fear, Yet by another’s fancy, thou must adjust. Oft do we play the roles by fate’s design, Yet hearts do yearn for more than transient gain; To love, to cherish wholly, to entwine— Yet leave us bereft, our spirits feigned in pain. So ponder this, dear heart, as shadows dance, ‘Tis better to be known than prized for mere delight; For in such knowing, blooms the truest chance, To find thyself, though cast in darkest night. Though fickle winds may turn the love once bright, Do not let sorrow’s grasp eclipse thy inner light.