Cup after cup.

From the bottom of a well
lined with discarded mugs from
memorabilia shops
I strain my eyes
and through my tangled eyelashes
I fight for vision between sun rays.

The world might always smell like
coffee gone cold.

he likes to call me dollface

and i let him unravel my threads,
because i'm not quite porcelain like he seems
to think - more so a rag doll, yarn for
hair, buttons for eyes, soft and
easy.

we started as a series of stolen things:
glances, secrets, moments in a walk-in freezer,
and i keep wondering how that all led us
here, stealing time as
he lights a bowl and i
dance circles in his living room

all the while he is watching
like he is in a museum, and i am
art behind a glass to
stare at, never
touch

he reaches out and falls short,
calls me over but never follows through,
pulls my threads and
sews me up again
each time
he calls me
dollface

i.
your hand on my elbow,
shoulder, wrist, and i
pretend not to
notice

ii.
you sing quietly on the
way home, like maybe i won't
hear you but
i always do

iii.
call me doll, and that's
okay,
i can be yours to
play with

iv.
we smoke together for the
first time, and you blow
rings, and i dance
for you

v.
chew me up, spit me
out, it's fine just as long as you
don't watch me clean my
messes

vi.
you mention your girlfriend's
name and i
crumble