Where should I begin
Our love was a twisted story
Of a doll
And a toymaker
Your painted tears divine
Oh how you always cried
And fall to ground and wine
Till there was cracks in your skin
But at least you were mine
But our love ran out of time
As much I tried
Oh where do I begin

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.

My favorite Barbie doll is still my favorite Barbie doll when she isn’t wearing the dress she came with.

Love bites
for the dark
intertwining with the pure.
Forgive me for I have sinned.
bruised touches
that rock back
and forth.

Save the innocent
or let them feed on unholy blood.
Let them taste metal
in the finest state.
Let them lick off
any left overs
that are both sweet and wet.

Turn them around,
show them new paths
that they can learn to love.
It's not life that deserves love
it's the after thought.
It's the mellow dark
that tinkles and pounds the heart.

Let yourself go,
and show others to do so.
Bite down,
caress and kiss
the mother of death.
For she has risen
and shown a way.

I let you in on my secret.
I told you half spoken truths
that twist with lies.
Because a broken doll
plays pretty until she falls
or drowns for that matter.
Only seven to go, what do you know?

The little china doll sits on the shelf,
Crying and broken all by herself;
Cerulean tears roll down her cheeks,
Leaving behind salty wet streaks;
A little girl has forgotten her, abandoned and lonely,
She remembers when she was her only;
The china doll shimmies her way to the ledge,
Teetering dangerously on the edge;
It's one final push and shes on her way,
Busted and shattered on the floor she lays.