There was nothing plastic
About the way your smile showed
Or about the way your arms felt
But a voice in the back of my head told me so
And last weekend
I melted a carpet I thought was wool
You could have fooled me
Except now there is a hard, shiny, iron-shaped mark
Plastered into the carpet's soft mat
To be honest, I was a little disgusted
When I pulled the iron away and found
Strings of green and red clinging to it like bubblegum
And to be honest, I felt a little disgusted with myself
Not to mention you
When I left a handprint in your soft back
And strings of skin still sticking to my palm
Prove you, my little plastic boy, are just a doll
By all the tests that matter
A human illusion too easily destroyed
By an excess of warmth

Take me apart
You called me your doll
I'm broken and missing some pieces.

Break me in half
It's nothing at all
I'm happier when I'm needless

Cut up my heart
And together we fall
Will you still call me baby?

"Dollface" may be my epitaph
But I'm not pretty, don't call
I need you, don't say it's a "maybe".

This cold seeps into my bones.
These war-worn bones...
these putrid bones.
Hold me up,
the puppet I am,
so willing and eager to take your hand.
I’ll kiss you with my painted lips.
I’ll press to you my plastic hips.
My button eyes will steal your fire and soon
I’ll be what you desire.
I’ll let you feel my woven hair and soon
you’ll need me more than air.
Don’t
play with me like
I’m your toy,
then
simply leave me
lying there.

hey dollface.
I don't think you know
how truly
ugly
you really are

These painted faces
Haven’t seen many places
A dusty shelf they call their home
A fake self is all they have known
They dress up and make up and
In the morning they wake up
All alone on their shelves
All by their lonesome selves

These painted faces
Will tell you what “good” taste is
Their smiles are painted on
Their happiness is long gone
But they know how to get what they want
They know how, where and what to flaunt

These painted faces
Are all dressed up in laces
They play with their food
Always in the mood
To play with their toys
And play with their boys

These painted faces
Have many shallow graces
Have one shape and one size
Have malice in their eyes
And have hearts full of lies,
But painted faces are lonely
Because in the end they only
Ever come home
To shallow, hollow selves
And shallow, hollow lies
To dusty, empty shelves
And dusty, empty lives

he likes to call me dollface

and i let him unravel my threads,
because i'm not quite porcelain like he seems
to think - more so a rag doll, yarn for
hair, buttons for eyes, soft and
easy.

we started as a series of stolen things:
glances, secrets, moments in a walk-in freezer,
and i keep wondering how that all led us
here, stealing time as
he lights a bowl and i
dance circles in his living room

all the while he is watching
like he is in a museum, and i am
art behind a glass to
stare at, never
touch

he reaches out and falls short,
calls me over but never follows through,
pulls my threads and
sews me up again
each time
he calls me
dollface