I am the deflating doll in the back of the closet. I sit, stuffed under mops and ***** buckets, right next to their secret infidelities.
I belong to the community; my plastic, airy skeleton is marked with many fingerprints; my froze-open mouth knows the shapes to fold to, going along with each individual's perfect kiss.
If I were real I’d leave this life behind. I’d find a mate and we’d sit in sunlight every day. But tonight I’m still a doll, an object made to please, and now another boy is knocking at my door.