I'm a broken doll
that sits on the top shelf
and stares down,
with glassy eyes,
onto the other dolls.
Plastic Barbies, American Girls,
Baby Dolls, and Raggedy Ann's,
They are coddled, held,
in a way that is foreign to me.
When I look at myself, I can see
the scratches in the porcelain,
the tears in the dress,
the heart that barely beats.
I'm the only one that can see,
these reminders of him.
I was misused, tossed about,
victim to his emotions.
He's all I've known,
and the definition of all
that will take me from
my top shelf.
I've been taken off the self before.
But the things he said, actions he did,
they weren't like what the other dolls got.
So I put myself back on
my top shelf.
I can feel their eyes,
their wink, whispers, and smiles
of approval.
I've been reached for,
but I turn them away.
I don't want to be misused, tossed about,
victim to his emotions again.
I know that their not all like him,
but I can't find myself trusting again.
So, I will sit on my top shelf,
and smile with red painted lips,
and maybe they won't see the pain inside.