(c) Fairy Doll by Barbara Agreste

I spot a wrinkly doll with a turquoise appearance catching her breath.
She is silent and sits naked in her cupboard,
Occasionally glancing out of it for something,
And never leaves her cocoon.
As she stares politely, my figure turns pale,
An empress she is and knows we are nothing,
An empty disguise with a full throne,
She rests commanding among her toys.
As she smiles, the whole world she poisons,
In flesh she engraves, with needles she weaves,
And alphabetically arranges her victims.
But why is she there? What is her crime?
She invades me from within with her smirk, and I forgive her mild intrusions.
When she splits me into this and that, always and never, glee and woe,
I am cleaved and grieving for a place under her cupboard,
Sheltered from the cutting clipper of the living
Making out of one two and never one out of two.
If only she turned me in… I would plead guilty of playing with dolls
And damaging the only one who has kept me sane.
When she sparkles, she bleeds and they think she’s alive,
But as soon as she scribbles nothings in her tiny citadel, words release her;
Instead of breaking down,
I continue to write erratically and we are cemented back together.
And before I know it, playful music puts me to sleep,
In her mansion, she forgets.
She is the world and the chant is her excuse to live as she lingers out of tune.
Asphyxiated by her demands, I escape her microscopic perimeter,
I watch her go inside of her and close the foul drawer as she falls asleep.


2 thoughts on “Dolls

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