silly thing —
giving away pieces of us on a platter.

and people —
they don’t know. barely care.
never will know — who’d tell them?

                                they say, “as if it mattered.”


you know what i’d call those like us:
patchwork dolls, made through quick devotion —
never the ones that attract,
never the ones that make them stay.
hook and sinker, unless tied to.
they keep us, for the sake —
for the vintage, claiming it’s all they'd been after.
but in the end the flashy ones up the stakes,
and we’re left tethered, rotting in the background
of the same workshops we were sewn in.

handwork, sketchy design — like any other.
“special effects,” someone says. “this one’s got empathy.”
let’s give it all, fluff them up with old filters.


feels like being stuck in a head that isn’t my own.
ugh — why won’t they stop?
tiny little monsters carrying ideas;
more torture than help.


they pack us up with barely any gift-wrapping —
it’s for them to let, buy, and sell.
pick up at half the price, because what’s worth is collapsing.
so we arrive like the best presents —
in reality, the least opted for, the least liked,
given to those who live with delight.


can’t sleep without dreaming —
i could’ve written that down.
forgive me; i lost it
in the same maze of memories and epiphanies
that claimed to be the best.
they screamed at me: "put us down on paper!"
i lost them in the labyrinth somewhere.


they say if you're lucky you’ll find the ones you’re bonded to —
the “owners” will protect and keep you years later, as if you’re new.
but that’s objectifying, and where are we being manufactured?
who even bothered?
and why would they now,
when we’re off the market, and the flashy ones gather.


if there’s a phrase, it must be put down — immediately.
i carry notebooks, pens, notepads, but it’s always too late.
keep the phone close; wake at odd hours like a resurrection —
got to put it down. i lost this chain of thought out of spite.


                   not scientifically proven — "who would agree to it?"

feels hollow every time someone leaves,
wondering why let them in.
but the thoughts, the whispers —
only the true ones can stay. believe.


but it’s not that major a thing.
at least i could claim so.
i’ve got their pieces —
a doll sewn from different fabrics
because the first draft tore away.
i’m stitched in colors and shades
that were never mine.
and then there is losing.
sitting too hollow
because cotton was pulled too deep
when a hand grabbed at it.
now there’s mending,
but someone force-stitched their patch back
without the same care, time, or love —
and it’s not fair.


                                  "when have we ever spoken out loud?"

can’t close my eyes — these idea-creatures get too loud.
i’ve been listening to cas and drifting into pleasure,
but waking is like returning
to a world i stopped dreaming about.
it’s not passive ideation — never that simple.
people don’t know — can never know —
they latch onto what sounds mysterious.
if they truly knew, they wouldn’t call it a joke;
they’d keep living instead of spoiling it.


dolls, as is:
we are, have become, or are put to test —
gathering dust, piling in this heat.
do you mind? help me with the sewing line.
we could exchange the cotton, or whatever remains of origin.
carry a part of me, and i’ll carry a part of you.
dolls we were —
i don’t mind remaining so.


how do i take it out
at the right time, the perfect place?
the idea came halfway —
romanticizing people taking pieces away —
and there was such a perfect ending
written behind my eyes.
but i slept over it, so this is what it is:
imperfect, maybe.
perhaps one day i’ll remember
that perfect ending —
if that’s how it’s meant to be.



                                                          ­         "write:"
about dolls—
and someone stole the major piece
right from the chest,
where the heart was supposed to be.
did they exchange theirs for your own?
depend on halves; if you can’t find the whole,
or unless it’s without a heart — you’ve grown.