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.
You don't hear me when i say, mom, please wake up, dad's with a slut, and your son is smoking cannabis.
No one ever listens this wallpaper glistens don't let them see what goes down in the kitchen.
Places places get in your places theow on your dress and pur on your dollfaces
everyone thinks that we're perfect please don't let them look through the curtains.
Picture, picture smile for the picture
Pose with your brother won't you be a good sister.
everyone thinks that we're perfect please don't let them look through the curtains
My father made me a makeshift dollhouse
one year for Christmas.
It sits in my room now, having been untouched for years.
It's cheaply made from a recycled dresser's wood
The insides are bare, lacking furniture.
When it's obvious flaws are ignored
it's sort of perfect.
Like it's patheticness has some charm.
I can't help but think that it is the perfect metaphor
for my family.
The silver fog slithers around
my ankles, slowly winding up
my legs with a serpent's silk move.
Squeezing her fingers, my mother
and I approach the barn-red house.
It breathes heavily and its exhale
reveals a backyard cemetery.
As the mist settles, a limestone
hand reaches out to snatch her away.
Down the street the dollhouse neighbor
cannot see me screaming, weeping,
I call for help.
Brown-green water drips from
the bathroom ceiling--
the plumber continues plumbing.
Sweat beads form on the tip of
the fat priest's nose, as he climbs
the broken stairs, he continues preaching.
The porcelain girl wears her mother's
brown-stained ivory prom dress.
Chanting, Sonofabitch. Sonofabitch.
They cannot see me--
I flail my limbs.
They cannot hear me--
Their own cursing drown out my voice.
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
She thought she was broken
So she began to search
She looked through lonely drawers for thumbtacks
Through soft cardboard boxes
On worn wooden desks
For staplers and tape
She looked for
To piece herself together
She felt her heart was fraying
And that her buttons were pulling at their thread
She wanted to fasten
One sleepless night
To a restful one
One bad dream
To a good one
One rush of tears
To clear eyes
One cluster of confusing thoughts
To a simple idea
But fastening is for dolls
Dolls need fixing, adjusting
We come undone
Only to find ourselves
Pieced back together
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
The Lego castles I built when I was little
Aren't strong enough to keep you safe
But they are the best I can do.
And I promise
The collapsed dollhouse in the garage
Is not a fair representation of me.
Though it might be a bit too close to the truth.
And I've never been good at Jacks
But I promise to pick up all your pieces
Every time you get thrown around.
And I got good practice
Taking care of people
Through all the stories I made up when I was five
And the rubber heads of my Barbies
We're always still connected to the plastic bodies
At the end.
So I think I have good experience
On how to stay alive in the real world
So maybe we could live in Lego houses forever