I used to have a pink dollhouse,
sitting in the corner of my room.
With little tables and chairs
and a family of it’s very own.

I used to have a pink dollhouse,
with children named Ryan and Allie.
And dogs named Brownie and Spot.

I used to dream I’d live in this pink dollhouse,
that my life would be like Allie’s.

I filled the pink dollhouse with
food,
beds,
sinks,
couches,
toys
and people.

I filled the outside with pools,
cars,
and a porch that played music.

I used to have a pink dollhouse,
that now I barely touch.
But the dollhouse brings back memories,
of something I once loved.

I used to have a pink dollhouse,
that I now see my cousins play with.
And I see me in them,
the kid that loved,
her pink dollhouse.

A woman has a certain right to her delusions. Her dolls come to life, and they talk to her. They tell her that there is a world of unending beauty. They tell her that there is a prince there, and that he loves her. This prince is her lover.
She has a certain right to choose her lover. To choose that prince to place beside her in the dollhouse, on the never-empty throne. She has a certain right to love him in her Candyland.
The prince has no flaws that would offend the spirit of a woman. The prince is unapologetically sensual. The prince is to be made a king by the power of a lover's inspiration. She is that lover who will make him king, in her dollhouse. In her Neverland.
She knows he isn't real, deep down. He is a reflection of a human man on the pure water's surface. Perfect for a dollhouse. The human man is danger. The sensual human man is death. She can only hold her breath so long, and she will never come up for air if he keeps her. She dies happily-ever-after in her mind, but is often left a bitter specter. Let her have her mind, her garden, her delusion.
Let her have the visions of an unending, beautiful together. Let her have the dreams of making love underwater. Let her stare through him to the shiny king on the throne. Let there be much hot blood spilled.
He is no prince, but a king already. He reigns over a kingdom of hidden things. They would burn her hands and thighs with volatile reactions, she can never know them. She sees them, and longs to place them in her lap and admire their heat. She would scar herself for the beautiful pain of the fire of his passions.

And so, I'm not so much silly as I am female. I'm not so much crazy as I am woman. I am plagued by my need for fire and my lust for pain. How could I ever be expected to sit and stare at walls? There is no oxygen in this box, and so there can be no fire!
The little throne in my dollhouse was burned to ashes. I wanted no king, nor did I wish to rule. I only longed to be touched and handled. No queen can rule in a state of hysterics. What would the people make of my hands and thighs?
I have a certain right to choose my lover. I have a certain right to burn down room after room in the dollhouse with the flames of my momentary hysteria. I **** the marrow of my lover's passion and leave him a husk, for he often hasn't much. I am a witch, draining the blood from him with every movement of my hips, using his essence in rituals much too taboo for discussion, eating whatever remains. I do it all in my dollhouse.

There is a Wild King. I fear him tremendously. The Wild King has the power to overthrow the pile of ashes. He is an unstoppable force, and I am merely painted as an immovable object.
In my dreams, he is a wolf, I am a lamb. He grabs my throat with determined jaws and thrashes nearly all life from me. I no longer move, yet I still breathe as he finds the softest part of my abdomen to start his feast. I feel every piece taken, and think "yes, yes..."
My fear of the Wild King is eclipsed only by my lust for him. To be a lamb for his slaughter is my only fantasy. To be his feast night after night is my only desire. The sensual human man is the sweetest death, and I can only hope  to taste it.
Wild King! I'd bet he tastes of wild strawberries, sweet with a kiss of tartness. He is passion and tenderness in tandem. He is a heat that melts the resolve slowly, like chocolate. A witch such as myself could never dream of claiming such power.
I wait for the Wild King in my scorched dollhouse. At night, I can hear him howl and sing. Sometimes I imagine he is closer than the night before. Let me have my delusion. He is not at all mine, but I pretend I could have him. My greatest fear. My only lover. The only lover I dare not choose.

There is a dollhouse in the middle of the bedroom.
It is pink.
The dolls are sitting in the kitchen.
They drink.
They sit in silence. They drink in silence.
No clink.

Their hair is long and blonde.
The makeup on their faces is too strong.
The conversation was dead
Even before it started
They just stare at the table –
The only thing that is stable.

They are gentle, petite and nice
Are they the candy for your eyes?
Every morning they put on their mask
Which makes them reliable
The scripture on their grave will read
‘Likeable’.

One of them is pregnant
There is a baby in her belly.
She can give birth anytime if you need
A programmed life is not a crime.
Indeed! We should celebrate her capability
Of making it easier for society.

There is a dollhouse in the bedroom.
It is pink.
The dolls are sitting in the kitchen.
They drink.
What’s in the tiny cups? Some tea.
Exactly the way it should be
Because ladies are modest
They never do their best
It can be intimidating
And might reduce their chances of dating.

And little girls follow. They obey.
Nobody tells them that they can disobey.
They are captives of their homes
And they don’t even know.
Of course. It’s part of the show.
This is how the world is constructed:
Women are the pillars and men construct it.

They hold the weight of the world
Without even noticing.
Their possibilities of moving aren’t promising.
Each direction is blocked:
If they come out from under their burden,
Fewer people will be bearing the same weight.
And boy! The world will see the hate!
Men would have to step in and take responsibility
But they don’t want to acknowledge how strong gravity is.

Earthly forces keep you on the ground
And you cannot move upwards
The invisible ceiling is pushing you back
Your feet sink in the soil under the pressure.
We are in it together.

We are in it together. In the dollhouse.
In the bedroom.
Our clothes are pink.
We sit in the kitchen
And drink.
We sit in silence.
We drink in silence.
No clink.
Our makeup is strong and we know
It’s wrong but nobody mentions there is a way out of conventions.
A man pours tea into our cups.
We don’t know any other beverage
Though its quality is below average.
We were raised on a potion
Brewed with patriarchal notion.

The silver fog slithers around
my ankles, slowly winding up
my legs with a serpent's silk move.
Squeezing her fingers, my mother
and I approach the barn-red house.

It breathes heavily and its exhale
reveals a backyard cemetery.
As the mist settles, a limestone
hand reaches out to ****** her away.

Down the street the dollhouse neighbor
cannot see me screaming, weeping,
I call for help.

Brown-green water drips from
the bathroom ceiling--
the plumber continues plumbing.

Sweat beads form on the tip of
the fat priest's nose, as he climbs
the broken stairs, he continues preaching.

The porcelain girl wears her mother's
brown-stained ivory prom dress.
Chanting, Sonofabitch. Sonofabitch.

They cannot see me--
I flail my limbs.
They cannot hear me--
Their own cursing drown out my voice.

She moves with
      Grace
The Gracious meeting in denial
He's the baron of beef delicious side
Reproduction picture full slide
The most
   Casual face

Met the eternal masterly
    Artist face
Saying Oh! Grace
The other side of midnight
     Mask Face
She could overjoy anyone's
Heart in the right place
    Deceiving Face

The miracle of love principles
Such skepticism could it be overjoyed realism

But a hell of a time with heavenly bliss
What a shock when he gave me my kiss
His Crooked face to longevity nose
Hiding place A-Rose

Beachy trance-set face

Highlands of Scotland,
anybody would want her
     *Joyful face

He's the baronial
Secluded caves but risky dives
The turn only If?? I
could turn back the time
The events strictly
confidential

Her apple cheeks bathing suit
He is picking her fruit
So soothing the fiddle
Tinman whistles the ladies harps

Their medieval moment's help!!!
The swords  bust to his manly chest
Sleeping Inn New castle west
Their best bedrest

The cupboards open overjoyed
invitation decorative cans
Of greens, pinks, purple passion

And flourless chocolate cakes
Powdered lips love his reaction

She was seductively awe-inspiring
The top hills of Ireland grass
vividly raised her legs
The bowl next to her
The Rose blush wines
Bare it Fruit and figs

The baronial tug of war wigs

Melodious birds the
Grand One
The thousand piano words
Overjoyed but
under the {Baronial} weather

So lordly new threads tailored
White-collared
carpenter pants
Men of the herds
She's the
Caron French boutique

There ****** desires
The creature within
Wildly mating like critiques

Her perfumes so extinct
mysteriously
Overjoyed her heart
So cultured violin strings
Dollhouse Castle to restore
With her unique touches,
he wanted more

The steps tiring like a killed deer
every muscle he could hear

Over elaborating how people are dating
With a  stamped from the very
heart  approval
But hard times such laboring
Sitting in her
overjoyed chair
His face all Scrooged
no gifts of flowers
What are the odds of this pair

Over and over again her rainbow
her sensitivity we need longevity
The  endless walls are caving in
We are not so overjoyed by
this monster garden
She had her first breakdown
Going up the
Jack and Jill Ireland hill
In the longtime what long run
Way too short
It didn't come from above

The vintage oldtimer
radios sitting
together with
family listening
so long ago
So commercialized
The crazy shows
Where do you really want to go,
you just want to shut everything off

He called her the powder puff
Waiting for the nocturnal star
Those scrubs and hot rubs shower
Over my knee-high boots so in
love cahoots

Oh! It's her
The smart student
Owl Hoot whats to boot
Eating her shepherd's pie
so lordly full lips word-me
Ireland Holy Land
of love and beauty

Overly scrupulousness
The time of blessings

But the baronial loved to be
overly entertained
And she would sit there  
Blue-blooded royal dishes
Got flushed away no wishes

Oversimplification
Like the hardest love
of multiplication
The ****** overstimulation
Over embellished
But you're still positive
overjoyed
But why did she
want to vanish

Over-programming
    Web-Face
Destroyed her
Apple jubilee computer

Spiritual Zen
Or new lover Amen
Ever touched by Ireland maidens
Like the crimson and clover
I do believe in the
Four leaf clover Face

Like the only thing she picked
were the weeds
More beauty of life and deeds
Or tons of sorrow wondering
how she
would feel tomorrow?
We will never know

My grandfather would listen to the Hornsea evening tides
he would compare them to incantations where ecstasy resides
grandmother complained that her husband was never really home
he compared wood to the soul in death searching for a form
a carpenter-he built my sister a dollhouse and me a horse
grandfather heard the grass growing he understood it's force
he would stare into the dolls house and share his visions
that night winds would blow the cottage free of it's fictions
On her last night grandmother opened the window and heard the sea
that night her husband finally arrived home and she for eternity
he would make wings for the horse and build a boat-his last creation
sailing at night he muttered his wife's name like an incantation
sleeping till morning the wind would carry his dreams in its suitcase
staring into the dolls house he watched grandmothers sleeping face

The Lego castles I built when I was little
Aren't strong enough to keep you safe
But they are the best I can do.
And I promise
The collapsed dollhouse in the garage
Is not a fair representation of me.
Though it might be a bit too close to the truth.
And I've never been good at Jacks
But I promise to pick up all your pieces
Every time you get thrown around.
And I got good practice
Taking care of people
Through all the stories I made up when I was five
And the rubber heads of my Barbies
We're always still connected to the plastic bodies
At the end.
So I think I have good experience
On how to stay alive in the real world
So maybe we could live in Lego houses forever
Please?

My father made me a makeshift dollhouse
one year for Christmas.
It sits in my room now, having been untouched for years.
It's cheaply made from a recycled dresser's wood
The insides are bare, lacking furniture.
When it's obvious flaws are ignored
it's sort of perfect.

Like it's patheticness has some charm.
I can't help but think that it is the perfect metaphor
for my family.

Porcelain skin,
white with rosy cheeks.
Lips sewn shut,
concealing her shrieks.
Knotted hair,
with pink pretty bows.
Smiling mouth,
lips red as a rose.
Eyes open,
staring at blank space.
Pretty dresses,
covered all in lace.
Broken teacups,
will soon fall apart.
Never revealing,
her lack of a heart.
Perfect girl,
with an alluring complexion.
Fails to see,
her and her reflection.
Flawless,
you can’t see her cracks.
Scarred,
only seeing whites and blacks.
Collecting dust,
sitting on a shelf.
Contemplating,
life itself.

Surrounded is a place where figments and imagination thrive.

Beyond the plastic walls is a place so dark and treacherous that true love doesn't exist.

Acrylic painted dolls sit and watch nightmares come to die, and dreams become corrupt.

The dollhouse is a place of naive joy and agony.

Rearranged piece by piece, changed and altered from the outside,
but the structure always remains the same.