i will have it all some day,
as my "it all" has nothing
to do with gilded halls &
shiny floors & iron doors
i am now concerned with
Better Things -- like
Love. and Order.
but oh, when i say i will have it,
& that i will have it all, i believe
more than i've believed
anything or anyone, ever at all.
when i say that; when i say
i will have it, & that i will have it
all, he looks at me strange...
his eyes light up in bright green flames
like a pretty man would
look at a silly, deranged
little doll. skeptical.
as if the world has already graced
my porcelain skin with enough lace for it to be a sin
he has no idea what it's like
to be a doll, at all; our pockets
are much too small and we are expected
to sit on shelves all day long .
he thinks that my all,
the "it all" of a doll,
is the "it all" of all....
a life of beauty and
of letting people dress you up
just to tear you apart.
he is.... jaded
by interrupted dreams,
i have posed in his hands, to see his smile
i let him know
i want to know how he could move me
finesse me, brush my hair, confess to me.
not to then to lay me down, and forget me.
i am very familiar with the shelves of his soul.
he buttons his sleeves,
and goes on to his lunch affair;
his heart falls out when he jests/deflects.
he lets it lay there.
we are different kinds of hollow