It's not pretty . . . the longer we go without speaking the more like a doll you are to me a dimming figure in my mind that I take out of a box for pain or entertainment The truth I remember only when I feel like being free And I put my manikins away Yours still draws or boils blood when I lift its plastic hands Your real hands harmlessly work far away Do you have a manikin of me? A face you remember to haunt you plastic hands you lift to scratch or stroke your face?