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Dollhouse

When I was younger, my mother’s name for me was Doll.
Her hair was golden thread, her eyes were glass.
She would dress me and undress me, and hold my pink hands and sing,
“How perfect you are,
How perfect and small.
My darling, my heart,
my little baby
doll.”
 
When I was a little older, the boys said I looked like a doll.
I wore pink sweaters and pink nail polish and
The day I found my mother’s high heels
Was the same day I found myself pressed up against a locker
By a senior with a sickening smirk
but
He wouldn’t
Hewouldn’t
Hewouldn’thewouldn’thewouldn’thewouldn’the
Smelled like smoke and sweat
And he told me he wanted to undress me and I wouldn’t
Wouldn’twouldn’twouldn’twouldn’t
He called me a
“Fuckin’ slut.
Fuckin’ bitch.
Fuckin’ whore.”
 I thought maybe If I kept my head in the toilet long enough I could wash away the
(slut)
Burn of him or maybe
(bitch)
Just flush myself away or
(whore)
Drown.
 
When I was a little older, a boy with good intentions
And a pretty smile
Tried to press me up against the wall.
He said I looked like a doll and his lips
Were very pink.
He told me how soft my skin was but really
I was made of hard plastic and
My mouth was a white porcelain bowl.
He wanted to put me on a shelf to
Take down and play with
To dress and undress.
He asked me to take off my heels
But what I really wanted was to take off my
Feet, my legs, my arms, my hands and mouth.
I wanted to dissemble my limbs like they were cheap plastic
And when he found me similarly impenetrable he
 left.
 
When I was much older, a boy called me his doll.
He didn’t try to press me up against the wall and he didn’t try
To undress me.
He put me on a plastic pedestal and
The first time I touched his hand,
He turned pink.
But by then my heart only knew how to love
The cold of porcelain under my hands,
Under my lips,
Under my heels and knees and elbows.
I used to lie on the bathroom floor after he left
And just wait for my bones to snap back into place.
I was completely sealed,
Pink flesh stretched tight over plastic muscles and porcelain bones.
He only saw the hardness of my soul and mistook it for
Strength.
He said he loved me for it.
He called me his doll and some nights
I let him believe it
Because how do you explain to someone that
Perfection is just a deflection,
That plastic is a better defense than flesh
And that porcelain doesn’t bruise or burn or bleed.
How do you explain that you wear heels
So that you won’t run away from his touch,
That without them you are small and soft and
Human.
How do you explain that
Dolls don’t sleep.
Don’t dream, don’t breathe, don’t bleed,
Don’t sweatthinkswearpissshitfuckfeel-
 
When I was younger, my mother’s name for me was Doll.
Her hair was golden thread, her eyes were glass.
She would dress me and undress me, and hold my pink hands and sing,
“How perfect you are,
How perfect and small.
My darling, my heart,
my little baby
doll.”

Comments

redmasscarade

Oh WOW! Um, you have a real talent here! Not only did you have the most perfect rhythm in your poem out of every poem I've ever read here, but the sentiment of being a woman on display for the world, the nasty crap that women put up with all the time, this feeling of never being good enough, nor even wanting to be good enough, well, you nailed it. It was a masterpiece. I look for more from you. Keep up the fantastic work.

mercury80

This was so amazing.♥♥ It gave me goosebumps.

sinamoninuusila

i liked your poem it felt real .

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