With every blink I can hear my
I must be a doll. I am pale enough for porcelain,
though I have never seen a fake baby
with shadows quite like mine.
The face is a circle,
glow of an English Rose,
the chest is a void. Sick cavity,
unknown entity, ribs swollen with the
struggle of containing slowed time and
But swift eyelashes, wired with
directionality. We have purpose and a
view from this shelf. The ruffled dress I
can take, woollen booties from A Real Boy
with a long nose. Baby doll,
little bit hungry, little bit lost.
Little bit sad little bit cross.
Little bit lonely little bit
Joints of balls and string
and hair to be aggressively brushed,
your own blonde carpet.
Glass eyes that will not try to meet yours. A hollow body,
solid skin to form partially enclosed limbs,
awkward spaces to be hidden by ill-fitting dresses.
I have nerve cells and they are on fire,
I have a heart and it is on fire,
I have a pulse and it is tearing through skin,
I have lungs and they will stop for no man,
I have no hollow head beneath my doll fluff and behind my glass eyes,
that is the space where my questions are kept.