I am a dollhouse. Within my walls is a sweet little doll living an unbelievably hard life- a life that doesn’t suit the delicateness of her features , rarely coming out to play or to look at the flowers in the garden ever since my once-little owner “grew up” years ago- a façade, an act merely put on for the sake of coping with the “real world” although still remaining her child self on the inside – like most people, although they may deny it (which explains the little doll). There used to be mommy and daddy doll too, but had long since disappeared into some oblivion, probably lost in the hole under the bed , where no-one could reach unless you were a mouse. That’s what it is- a mouse hole of dark childhood memories hidden in the very corner of the room my owner never once dared stick her fingers into for the fear of it getting pulled back into it by some proverbial childhood monster under the bed- the bullies who’d alienated, called her names, and much more. The very bullies who’d won her parents over to being on their side instead of being on hers like any normal pair of parents should, hence this new, permanent residence of the mommy and daddy dolls- shoved/dropped into a hole under the bed of an otherwise well-lit, typical teenage girl’s room. The little doll lives all alone- no friends, no family, except for a littler baby doll that lives in it with her- the little doll’s sister (sometimes for companionship, otherwise pushed aside completely or yelled at for being a “nuisance” as if babies knew any better) whose only job is unconditionally loving her older sister. She’s a tough-as-nails doll, accepting no airs and graces from anyone, despite a default smiling exterior literally painted onto her face, clinging to no-one and certainly no man. (There aren’t any boy dolls around for the little doll to have a sweet little puppy romance with anyway). One day, my owner- all grown up and married stumbles upon me; now in the storeroom instead of a shelf in her bedroom, looks at me, smiles in nostalgic mirth, and hands me over to her little daughter- a splitting image of my owner when she herself was that age and used to open my walls and play with my dolls on a regular basis. And for a minute, I wonder if it really is as life now repeats itself, only taking a turn for the better as two more dolls are finally re-introduced into me to the little doll. Two familiar faces from the hole under the bed that my former owner has finally gotten strong enough to stick her fingers- no, her whole arm into just for the sake of her little daughter. The little doll is happy now.
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
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.
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