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Sharina Saad Jun 2013
When I was small
I had a favorite game
A game only girls loved to play
Paper dolls, pretty paper dolls....

My sister Sara dressed the paper dolls nicely
Elegantly dressed, pretty dolls...
and we loved to style them our ways...
We got bored easily and Sara begged me to buy more dolls...
I used my childish charm to get a rupee or two
My grand papa joked about our  paper dolls
"no saree wearing dolls"? " no chapati making dolls"?
" No parantha making dolls?
and both of us replied.... " ohhhh.... shut up grandpapa"

When we grew up a little,
My sister and I were sent to a boarding school.
It was all girls school
and we were taught grooming, social etiquette
and how to be a lady...prim and proper
Dressed smartly, talked only when necessary
and sat up neatly, no head turns..
No giggling... only smile delicately
No tantrums or emotional plays...
just be poised... controlled.. poised and controlled...
Of course
We were not allowed to play paper dolls anymore

After awhile I hated the school...
Told my sister.....  They were turning us
into paper dolls...
Paper dolls have no say...
They only follow.. They are puppets
Remember paper dolls we used to play?
All pretty in the outside but there is no life
to breathe....
Suffocated i felt here.....all I wanted to do is flee
Sis, cmon this is certainly not us... let's flee

WE SAID GOODBYE TO OUR BED AND WE DID RUN....
We managed to be who we wanted to be in the end
to live in real world, be with real people
given a freedom to choose what we wanted to do
with life...
We enjoy our life not the traditional way anymore
Have career and still we dressed nicely and elegantly
We are real people...
Unlike the paper dolls , who only look poise and beautiful..
but inside they are freezing.... lifeless....paper dolls..
LIVING THE FAIRY TALE

make her
a doll's house from
McVities Gingerbread
Cake she absolutely adores
"Yum...yum!"

*

Her dolls line up on the kitchen table. Keeping their greedy eyes on the ingredients, The Golden Syrup gleams in a bowl like a jewel. For this session of cooking with Daddy( always good for a laugh)the lights have..**** them gone...out.

We prepare ourselves by candlelight.
I swear one of the dolls winks and licks her lips in the flickering. The big doll that can wet herself...wets herself.  
Little daughter is wearing a chief's traditional hat many sizes too big for her. She wears it like a crown. She looks like a mushroom come alive.

"Tonight..." I proclaim like the showman that I am to my assembled audience of girl and dolls. "Tonight I shall create before your very own eyes...my very own Jamaican Ginger Cake." I get dolls and girl to say the magic words "Yum Yum YUM!" and hey presto we're off.

Tilly tells the dolls in a loud whisper that "Daddy isn't as good at this as Mummy is!" My pride smarts. I'll show the little blighters I swear and swear to myself.

"Just get on with it!" the dolls scream silently.

Tilly already has a finger( not her own)in the Golden Syrup. She licks the guilty finger and fibs outlandishly "Dolly wanted to taste it!"
The black treacle remains untouched. The dolls don't like it. "Only in the cake!" Tilly confesses.

Soon spices and flour are sifted. Eggs beaten to within an inch of their lives...whisking about the bowl. "Let there be light!" I invoke the Gods and the lights come back. I am indeed favoured.

Tilly falls asleep in the kitchen's fug and warmth...curled about her sleeping cat. The cat is always asleep even when awoke.

The dolls never take their eyes off of me.

Now comes the time when the cake puffs up with pride and sits on its plate like a newly crowned monarch.  It's...it's...not bad for a Dad. But looks a bit the worse for wear..bits falling off here and there...a bit eaten...just a nibble and maybe another little nibble.

"But why Mr. Dempsey..." my Indian grocer demands with amazement "...do you want thirty..THIRTY McVities  Jamaican Ginger Cakes...for why...it's not the end of the world is it...or Brexit?"

"I'm building a house!" I whisper to him as if it is our little secret.

When she awakes..the cat as ever still asleep ...she yawns "Dolls gone..where dolls goned?"

The kitchen looks as immaculate as a conception...as if man has never touched it.

"Shhh...dolls is sleep!" I say sotto voce and adopting her lingo.
"In their own house!" I add for extra measure. Her eyes go wide.

And indeed dolls are lying down with eyes shut tight inside...their newly constructed Jamaica Gingerbread House. All except for the big doll who wet herself and who I have propped up on the loo. Although she is on the loo she finds now she can't go.

"Mmm!" Tilly  mmms. "Dolls have lovely house!" eating the door and half the roof off. Cake in her curls...cake up her nose and in an ear. She eats it with all of her head. "MMMM!" she mmmms again.

"We won't tell if you don't..." the winking doll whispers (like the co-conspirator that she is) waking up in a real life fairy tale "..if you don't tell!"

The next evening... the house eaten...I pop into Mr. Patel's. "Surely not more!" he almost flinches.

"No...just the one this time Mr. Patel...just the one!"
Kewayne Wadley Feb 2019
She sat on the shelf
Admiring the other dolls,
She'd been there for some time.
Watching the other dolls come & go.
The only one not wrapped in plastic.
She thought her self ugly
The other dolls never staying long.
The kids & their parents quickly by passing her.
Grabbing the dolls wrapped in box & plastic.
Although very beautiful she'd sit and contemplate the worst.
Watching the other dolls come & go.
The little black doll not wrapped in plastic.
She grew resentment.
Finding the only difference was in how she was made.
Her brown skin, her black hair.
She so longed to be taken to a loving home.
She didn't come with any accessories.
The vanity that came with the other dolls.
Her smile printed across her face.
Over time it became hard for that smile to stay.
Often crying when the lights turned off and the store closed.
She wanted a home just like the other dolls.
Quickly picked up,
Hurried over to the register.
She longed to be like all the other dolls.
Watching them all come and go.
Their hair tied behind their head.
All the make up and accessories sealed in their package.
It wasn't until one of the other dolls was returned.
Damaged.
Half stuffed into the package.
When she spoke to the other doll,
She discovered that not all homes are what you think.
Seeing how rough she was played with.
The rough marks across her face, her hair no longer tied in the package ponytail.
It wasn't until then that she realized that the best things come with time.
Finding the best home in herself
Beautiful black doll
Taken home to meet the girl she'd be with forever
Karl Stewart Jul 2011
Mother In Law has a huge collection of dolls (creeps me out)

Those dolls,
always watching me
with their beedy little eyes
following me where ever I go
they are in every room
I can't get away from them
they sit there with smug looks
those dolls
always watching me
creeps me out
I swear I saw one turn its head
why does she have this infernal collection
I think she is out to get me
I am quite sure of it
she even has a pair of them in the guest bath
sitting there drinking tea
both of them strategically placed
so they can watch me
always watching me
those dolls
creeps me out

the life sized ones are bad enough
but she has dozens of little ones
every time i visit my mother-in-law
they are someplace else
and yet, I have never seen her move them
does she even know they moved?
they follow me
and not just with their eyes
they follow me
room to room
place to place
and they all smile
oh you can't always see it
but I can tell
I am not paranoid
I am quite sure they are out to get me
they talk amongst themselves
i swear I have heard murmers when alone
I can't stand being alone in that house
the constant rustling
she must hear it
why can't she hear it
I am not crazy
I can't be crazy
can I

sometimes
when alone
i think one of them tries to talk to me
it is on the edges of consciousness but it is there
just barely audible
i cant believe no one else hears it
shhhh
what was that
did you hear it
tell me you heard it
i am not crazy
I can't be crazy
can i
those dolls
always watching me
creeps me out
Tracie Bulkley Nov 2013
This girl named Genie, she's very real
You cut her, she will bleed
She plays with paper dolls all day
If they follow, she will lead

Late at night when no one sees
She'll bring out her paper dolls
She likes to cut them up, you see
And hide their pieces in the walls

But scissors cut her fragile skin
I've seen what they can do
And when she bleeds, the blood is thin
and looks a lot like glue

Genie is a paper doll, I think
Her face is thin and fake
She tells a lot of lies to me
and says it's for my sake

And funny now to think of it
There's not a promise she won't break
And when she needs the money
There's not a cent that she won't take

So tell me now
What to do with paper dolls?
Cut them up, of course!
And hide their pieces in the walls

It's ok to cut up paper dolls
And hide their pieces in the walls

All we are is paper dolls
Hiding in a house of plastic
Putting parchment on the cuts we give ourselves
Living out our lives of lies while guided by our own two hands
The hands of greed and guilt
All we are is the lies we tell ourselves before we sleep at night
The valley is still there although the dolls have gone,
for now.
We used to plough through Pharmacies to staunch the needs of our disease and on our knees we'd pray to gods
making rods for our own backs and dolls were stacked up two by two in the flying embers of those who knew the pain,
and fired down throats to fuel again the fires that burnt inside.
I rue the tracks laid down and splayed on limbs that now grow old,rigid,cold and folded tight against my chest
but the dolls knew what was best in those testing times and track lines only serve to tell how well I knew them all.
Through those furrows made I fall and hear dolls call to me in the closed down empty pharmacy
where life is stifled in the green and black capsules which fooled us all,
the valley's gone for now,the dolls are sleeping tight,the night has faded,a jaded yesterday has given birth to a bright new day,and so
I shall stay as quiet as I can.
Dolls are always your friends
and never scream or shout.
They are where you left them
and never move about!

Dolls can be fantastic,
made of cloth or even plastic.
They always have poise
and never make too much noise!

Dolls make a fine guest
and understand when you need rest.
They won’t laugh when you sing,
Dolls say the right thing!

Dolls are just so utterly great!
But don’t you control their fate?

w.j.w.k
Tracie Bulkley Mar 2014
------------------------------------------------------> I felt his perfect, plastic hands
               |                                                              As they touched my bleeding lips,
               |                                                                                           My broken arms
               |                                                                                    My blood-eagled ribs
               |                                                                                  He put me in the chest
               |                                                                               Buried me six feet under
               |                                                                        And never dug me up again
               |      Each pair of hands has its own set of Barbies or Kens
               |                               Just to play with every day
               |----------------------------------------------------------------­---
I found this room once                                                             |
In my secret home of dreams                                                  |
The room looked like my childhood                                       |
Just like it                                                                                   |
And these dolls                                                                          |
They lined the walls                                                                  |
Ken dolls                                                                                    |
Dozens upon dozens                                                                 |
Of my pretty little Ken dolls                                                     |
My dears                                                                                    |
Beautiful, each one                                                                    |
Blondes, brunettes, even one or two redheads                         |
Some brand new                                                                       |
And some showed little signs of wear                                      |
Little signs of having been loved by me                                 |
Tiny marks of minor hurt                                                        |
Some with little scratches on their arms                                 |
One with wing-shaped claw marks on his back                    |
Many with bleeding lips                                                          |
In the middle of the room                                                        |
There was a dirt hole in the floor                                            |
A chest,                                                                                     |
And a pile of broken dolls                                                       |
Oh, these were once my lovelies too                                      |
Four little beautiful Ken dolls                                                 |
Bleeding lips, open chests, and broken arms                        |
One by one                                                                              |
I placed them, gently as I could                                              |
In their tiny coffin                                                                    |
And buried them deep in the senseless earth                         |
Beneath my feet                                                                       |
Standing, wiping dirt from my hands                                  |
Hoping I could never have cause                                           |
To dig them up again                                                              |
But I glanced around the room                                          &nbsp
I genuinely want to know, can you guys basically tell what this is about?
KG Feb 2015
When I was a little girl, I loved to play with dolls.
On Christmas morning, I would wake up
And a beautiful, pristine little doll sat beneath the tree.
Encased within those shiny plastic walls,
Displayed like a piece of fine art at a museum.
                            — Except, I could never stay behind the red velvet rope.

I snipped, and slashed, and cut away,
Until her plastic fortress was breached.
She was mine.
I stroked her soft, fine hair,
Feeling the silky strands upon my fingertips
And I whispered in her ear
“I will love you forever”.
She looked upon me
With bright blues eyes,
Rose painted lips,
And a compliant smile.
I knew she was mine.

And then I would play…

Yank the blue polka dot dress off her slender figure
And contort her delicate frame into any position I pleased.
She was mine to love.
Mine to control.
Shoved her into my backpack and brought her to school
Grubby little fingers reached out to play with her:
The girls playing dress up,
The boys playing dress down.

And now, her once silky hair,
brittle strands of straw,
So wild and tangled no comb could soothe.
Raced to the kitchen, grabbed the scissors
And hacked away furiously,
Somehow believing I could fix her
With the very scissors I used to break her protective walls.

Now found myself staring wistfully at the dolls with long shinny hair
When my mother took me to the department store.

Then one day, as I played with her in the backyard,
A leg popped off and would not go back on.
So I threw her disfigured body in the trash
Atop the rotting carrot peels and broken egg shells.
That compliant smile shone through,
Begging me to take her back…
                     — But I had a new doll now.

Years later, when my childish things were packed away in the attic,
I sat upon the park bench in my blue polka dot dress,
With shimmering locks cascading softly upon my collarbones.
And you told me I was your Mona Lisa.
You told me, “I will love you forever”.
I smiled
And promised I would do anything to make you happy.

But then you started coming home
With alcohol on your breath and wrath in your eyes.
And struck me for all the things I did wrong.
I said I was sorry,
Promised to do anything to make you happy.

But it was never enough.
You threw me upon the bed with fury glittering in your crimson orbs.
Took me with carnal lust
That never seemed to ease the hate.
And left me broken,
With blue fingerprints imprinted upon my porcelain skin.
— And never came back

Now, when people ask me why I never let my daughter play with dolls,
I reply:
Some things are better left in the box.
EP Mason  Jan 2014
Paper dolls
EP Mason Jan 2014
You get out and play with your paper dolls
their lissom limbs float and shake
you love the way they look at you
you think it's love but it's lustrous and fake

You cut a new doll every day
and carefully rip all their pieces away
you string them together and colour them in
and all of your dolls are flimsy and thin

Go ahead and play with your paper dolls
their paper hearts will soon unfurl
their whitened hearts will burn at will
their fleeting parchment creases and curls

And here I am with my wooden heart
rigid and rotting and swelling from the start
and growing like trees inside my carcass
while you burn your paper dolls with hands so heartless
© Erin Mason 2014
rebecca  Jan 2014
dolls
rebecca Jan 2014
I could never understand,
comprehend,
why all the dolls I had
when I was little,
were so pretty.

they stared at me,
through glassy eyes,
eyes with the most
dazzling pigments.

their tiny dresses,
sewn by a few threads
and idealistic whims,
fit their skinny bodies perfectly,
exposing a carefully crafted figure.

their painted lips curled up,
into an everlasting smile,
and they seemed to mouth
'what is fat? what is imperfection?'

I also could never understand,
why all the girls wanted to be,
not just like the dolls,
but be a manifestation of those dolls.

do they want
to not have a single thought in their heads,
except the desire for perfection and admiration,
for people to think that they're beautiful?

do they want
to blink behind vacant eyes,
with lashes curled?

do they want,
to have constantly worry,
about having a fold of fat
on their skin?

there is a reason,
why dolls are unmoving.
they have to be controlled,
by a superior force,
guiding their actions.

is that who you want to be?

I can assure you, my friend,
I may not be a beauty queen,
and I may have some fat to my name,
but I am not a doll.

And I am **** proud.
Poetic T Nov 2014
Sitting in line, my dolls all still
Figurines sitting dressed up features
Frozen in that moment
Placid
Stagnant
Soundless
As all lips sealed with a sewn kiss,
"Never do they speak"
"Silence is there skill"  
Death seeps from staring eyes,
"They are the perfection I killed for",
Never would I wish for such perfection
But it only lasts so long as all flowers
Wilt
My dolls I hunt for, not anyone will do
They have to be a
Height,
Weight,
Beauty
Instilled, for me to appreciate them,
But those that fall, damaged in some way
Not as pristine,
"To the dumpster they must go"
I am called the "Doll Maker"
Perfection of eternal beauty Is my goal,
Features must be symmetrical
Not any face will do,
I will search for those of
Beauty
Exquisiteness
Symmetry
Is my model of perfection, those
Unsightly
Repugnant
Proportions
Not to my qualities, have no fear
You are beneath my view
Only the beautiful I seek,
"I Love My Silent Dolls"
Dressed sitting quietly still,
I am the
"Doll Maker"
For beauty & perfection I am willing to ******
We **** for beauty, but some go the extra mile

— The End —