i will have it all some day, as my "it all" has nothing to do with gilded halls & shiny floors & iron doors (anymore) i am now concerned with Better Things -- like Love. and Order.
but oh, when i say i will have it, & that i will have it all, i believe myself! more than i've believed anything or anyone, ever at all.
when i say that; when i say i will have it, & that i will have it all, he looks at me strange... his eyes light up in bright green flames like a pretty man would look at a silly, deranged little doll. skeptical. annoyed. as if the world has already graced my porcelain skin with enough lace for it to be a sin he has no idea what it's like to be a doll, at all; our pockets are much too small and we are expected to sit on shelves all day long . he thinks that my all, the "it all" of a doll, is the "it all" of all.... a life of beauty and wallpaper art, of letting people dress you up just to tear you apart. he is.... jaded by interrupted dreams, and faded by Jäger. i have posed in his hands, to see his smile i let him know i want to know how he could move me finesse me, brush my hair, confess to me. not to then to lay me down, and forget me. i am very familiar with the shelves of his soul.
he buttons his sleeves, and goes on to his lunch affair; his heart falls out when he jests/deflects. he lets it lay there.