Creepy Dolls

In my room are three dolls.
One tall,
Two short.
The short ones
have soft blonde hair.
The tall one is fancy.
It rests with a smile
unlike the somber twins.
A long time ago,
they were put into storage
and never taken out,
until an old granny died
and they were set
on the dusty shelves of Goodwill,
overlooking the cracked and ***** dolls
just like them.
I picked them up because
I know how it feels
to not be wanted.
People call them creepy,
and haunted,
but I call them mine.
And now they have a home.

*****

Everything is so, so *****.
Everything is of mold,
or rust,
or flies,
or rot.
Gosh, am I ***** too?
I want to find something nice to wear,
something that will make a stranger think,
“I wonder who she is.”
Yet, all my sweaters have holes.
The black sandals I got on clearance
left stains on my socks.
How am I supposed to be loved?
How am I supposed to do well?
How am I supposed to live
if I am so *****?

“Please listen to me,”
The sad girl in the mirror says.
“Please listen to me, and tell me I’m okay,”
She puts her hands to the cold glass
and looks at me with droopy red eyes.
“Please save me.”
…
“I don’t want to die.”
…
I cover my ears
and turn away
and shut the door behind me
as I leave.
She wails,
begging for me to return,
but I can’t stand to stall at the mirror
and stare at myself
and wish for impossible things.

Our Angel

“We found her bones under the stairs,”
He said to me.
They were fresh,
dripping with ichor
and smelling of sunshine.
That day,
my heart was ripped out of me
and buried with the bones.
Because without those bones
breathing
and smiling
and telling me sweet lies,
I don’t know how to live.
“It’ll be okay,”
He continued.
Not knowing that I was the one,
I was the one who had to tell them,
“Our Angel is gone.”
And I know that once I tell them,
amidst their tears they will **** me too.

I think that in the winter
my stutter must get worse,
because lately,
I can't say anything right.