You sit in a dollhouse all day,
Pouring tea out for your dolls and teddies. Mother comes home,
fake smiles on her face,
Father comes home,
reads his newspaper for the day.
"Hello, my love,
wipe your tears.
fix your face.
fix your heart.
put that makeup back on,
wear your lace.
Because Mr. Smith doesn't like when you cry.
He doesn't like when you pout,
he hates when you want to die".
"But mama,
I look so pretty when I cry.
Leave me be.
I want to die.
I want to be free.
I want to fly.
I want a painful goodbye
So I can have all the good
in the other life".

Mother doesn't know.
Father doesn't care.
Sister is far away.
Mr. Smith is an ******* with no hair.
LoVe iS iN tHe AiR.
LoVe iS iN tHe AiR.
"Go back to bed, honey.
You need your pretty sleep.
Dry your face,
paint your nails,
Fix your hair.
The world doesn't like your sad,
ugly face".
The walls are the best psychiatrists ever. They listen, they listen,
oh how they whisper.
You can stare at them and they'll never run away.
They'll never give you pills.
They never tell you to fix your face.
Your teddies are your friends.
Your dolls are your puppets.
"Gimme a canvas,
let me paint my worries!"
You take a knife,
you put it to your skin.
Out pops all the fuzz and stuffing.
No one cares. No one cares. No one cares
about anything but your face and hair.
You stare at yourself for what seemed like 1,000,093 minutes of dread.
"Oh, Mr. Smith, do you know about the demons inside my head?
You don't?
You don't?
Aww, how sad!
Then you must not know
about all the blood that I shed"
All they say is pain is beauty.
You cry out to your pillow,
"Help me! Someone just help me!"
But the truth is, babygirl,
the wrong people in this world only care
about their own teddies
And their own dollies
And their own rainbows
And their own swirlies.

-k.ira