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Juliana Feb 9
You push me,
shout at me,
pull me around
like I exist as a form of playdough;
one which molds at your touch,
like you are my creator,
and I, just your masterpiece.

Like I am an object,
a toy,
some plastic, a bit of wire.

Even if that may be,
even if you reduce me to
be held in the eyes of a child,
is that all I am?
Am I not more?

Does a child not feel?
Not love?
Not play?

How is a child’s love any less than yours?
How am I any less worthy?

I am not a ball of dough.
I am not to be rolled around.
To be pushed;
to be shoved.

I will not let your words penetrate me.
I will stay guarded;
I will not unravel under the thread of your fingertips;
I will only be picked apart by my own.


Like the last breath of a flickering bulb,
those sweet sorrow seconds of a candle
right before the flame dies down.

I am a flame, and I will be fire,
and I will not be stopped.
yes i did just write an unironically deep poem about a personified bot it. yes that's just who i am.
Phone ringing with the cord cut
     That's the way we like to f*ck
  When we know they know
                    And the walls are just play dough
               And the heat we make turns this shelter to clay
            It makes it so intense we forget what to say
     But it's okay they'd listen anyway
         I'm trying to take the time to see just what makes you tick
         And I was never looking for smoke and mirrors or obvious tricks
            Just your essence and your presence made me question what I know
     What they know
     Walls made of playdough

Dusk turns to night with the lights off
        So silent
    You could hear a pin drop
        Deep breaths slowly fill the air
Rattling these walls made of playdough
            So in sync we don't even care
    That they know we know
Taking the time to take it slow
        In your eyes I see that raging fire
    Of these feelings I will never tire
And your skin embedded in my memories
         Makes me realize what I've always known
    Just your touch and your existence erase the tragedies
          What do they know
  Through these walls made of playdough
Anastasia Webb Sep 2014
little man by the bus stop
with his tin organs, all replaced
because his real ones failed him
(jst like he failed his old wfe)
squat top hat and fat wide smile
and he’s almost a cartoon
and he’s almost not a person.

— The End —