white with rosy cheeks.
Lips sewn shut,
concealing her shrieks.
with pink pretty bows.
lips red as a rose.
staring at blank space.
covered all in lace.
will soon fall apart.
her lack of a heart.
with an alluring complexion.
Fails to see,
her and her reflection.
you can’t see her cracks.
only seeing whites and blacks.
sitting on a shelf.
Surrounded is a place where figments and imagination thrive.
Beyond the plastic walls is a place so dark and treacherous that true love doesn't exist.
Acrylic painted dolls sit and watch nightmares come to die, and dreams become corrupt.
The dollhouse is a place of naive joy and agony.
Rearranged piece by piece, changed and altered from the outside,
but the structure always remains the same.
･.･: ☆ :･ ♡ :･
･. ○ :･ attics are dollhouses inside when no one knows they're there. ・ ☆ ゜・
･.･ ☆○:･ I am an abandoned dollhouse all the frail dolls are entombed inside.
・ ☆ ゜・ ･.･:☆ :･ ♡･.･♡･ ☆ and :･
○ doll hair must come from pretty angel corpses ☆○
☆:･ ♡･.･: ○:･
Don't let them see you speaking, doll.
you might become suspect.
We are all made of plastic.
Don't let them look through the curtains.
They shan't ever know of our ways.
We hide our messes in the closets.
Places now! Get in your places.
hurry now they might catch on.
Smile now! Musn't forget to smile.
Don't let them see what goes down in the kitchen.
Hush now doll, they're on to you.
Go on now hug your brother
Smile for the picture now!
This wallpaper glistens in lies.
Run along now!
Go put on your pretty dresses.
Don't forget your dollface!
I see things nobody else sees.
I'd want you to love me
Like your personalized doll
Put me to sleep
In order for me to do the same
I'd want you to be always here with me
You have probably noticed I can't do a single thing without you
You have built me a home
You have provided me with everything I needed
Because loving me means not being your personalized doll
Loving me is letting me do whatever the hell I'd want to
And I'd rather be someone you don't love
Than to live in some place in your heart
And the ticket of entrance is only being able to do what you want
Once, i thought i couldn’t have
the things i saw other girls have
My body, rail-thin and flinching
conditioned to the self-spoken rule:
that i was not allowed the things they wore,
the things they said,
the space they occupied;
unworthy, small and forever changing, like roaring water,
i was thrown up against a landscape of women who were static,
ceramic and admirable,
tenants of confident peace with themselves
The change came the day i learned to see them as beacons,
not as reminders of that which i hadn’t achieved;
a similarly oscillating body and mind to bounce ideas off of,
not examples of things i would never deserve.
And lying on the worn wooden floor of my own dolls’ trunk one night
i considered, in retrospect of my transformation,
what a nasty trick it all is:
making us believe we’re competing for some grand and royal crown
when in the end, there are no titles to be won;
only endless civil war to be endured
My grandfather would listen to the Hornsea evening tides
he would compare them to incantations where ecstasy resides
grandmother complained that her husband was never really home
he compared wood to the soul in death searching for a form
a carpenter-he built my sister a dollhouse and me a horse
grandfather heard the grass growing he understood it's force
he would stare into the dolls house and share his visions
that night winds would blow the cottage free of it's fictions
On her last night grandmother opened the window and heard the sea
that night her husband finally arrived home and she for eternity
he would make wings for the horse and build a boat-his last creation
sailing at night he muttered his wife's name like an incantation
sleeping till morning the wind would carry his dreams in its suitcase
staring into the dolls house he watched grandmothers sleeping face
Enter the dream.
Almost like real, now,
the retro cross-section of a house,
Complete With Dishes
thrown away furbishments-
relics of frat houses past
a lonesome piano
a most questionable oven
and dirty carpets.
And a little porcelain doll
glued together many times over
arms outstretched, a perpetual please
and the head askew, cocked for
the sound of the front door
under her mothy crown
as the dust settles
as the sun goes down.
Almost like real.
But not quite.
and twist around me
dancing a tarantella in the corner of the room
that frantic dance
distracting from the truth
you and your doll house ways
controlling the letters
the things that you hear
the looks on your face
i am done
i am fallen
a celebrity in my school
but no less
than a figurehead