I used to have a pink dollhouse,
sitting in the corner of my room.
With little tables and chairs
and a family of it’s very own.

I used to have a pink dollhouse,
with children named Ryan and Allie.
And dogs named Brownie and Spot.

I used to dream I’d live in this pink dollhouse,
that my life would be like Allie’s.

I filled the pink dollhouse with
food,
beds,
sinks,
couches,
toys
and people.

I filled the outside with pools,
cars,
and a porch that played music.

I used to have a pink dollhouse,
that now I barely touch.
But the dollhouse brings back memories,
of something I once loved.

I used to have a pink dollhouse,
that I now see my cousins play with.
And I see me in them,
the kid that loved,
her pink dollhouse.

A woman has a certain right to her delusions. Her dolls come to life, and they talk to her. They tell her that there is a world of unending beauty. They tell her that there is a prince there, and that he loves her. This prince is her lover.
She has a certain right to choose her lover. To choose that prince to place beside her in the dollhouse, on the never-empty throne. She has a certain right to love him in her Candyland.
The prince has no flaws that would offend the spirit of a woman. The prince is unapologetically sensual. The prince is to be made a king by the power of a lover's inspiration. She is that lover who will make him king, in her dollhouse. In her Neverland.
She knows he isn't real, deep down. He is a reflection of a human man on the pure water's surface. Perfect for a dollhouse. The human man is danger. The sensual human man is death. She can only hold her breath so long, and she will never come up for air if he keeps her. She dies happily-ever-after in her mind, but is often left a bitter specter. Let her have her mind, her garden, her delusion.
Let her have the visions of an unending, beautiful together. Let her have the dreams of making love underwater. Let her stare through him to the shiny king on the throne. Let there be much hot blood spilled.
He is no prince, but a king already. He reigns over a kingdom of hidden things. They would burn her hands and thighs with volatile reactions, she can never know them. She sees them, and longs to place them in her lap and admire their heat. She would scar herself for the beautiful pain of the fire of his passions.

And so, I'm not so much silly as I am female. I'm not so much crazy as I am woman. I am plagued by my need for fire and my lust for pain. How could I ever be expected to sit and stare at walls? There is no oxygen in this box, and so there can be no fire!
The little throne in my dollhouse was burned to ashes. I wanted no king, nor did I wish to rule. I only longed to be touched and handled. No queen can rule in a state of hysterics. What would the people make of my hands and thighs?
I have a certain right to choose my lover. I have a certain right to burn down room after room in the dollhouse with the flames of my momentary hysteria. I **** the marrow of my lover's passion and leave him a husk, for he often hasn't much. I am a witch, draining the blood from him with every movement of my hips, using his essence in rituals much too taboo for discussion, eating whatever remains. I do it all in my dollhouse.

There is a Wild King. I fear him tremendously. The Wild King has the power to overthrow the pile of ashes. He is an unstoppable force, and I am merely painted as an immovable object.
In my dreams, he is a wolf, I am a lamb. He grabs my throat with determined jaws and thrashes nearly all life from me. I no longer move, yet I still breathe as he finds the softest part of my abdomen to start his feast. I feel every piece taken, and think "yes, yes..."
My fear of the Wild King is eclipsed only by my lust for him. To be a lamb for his slaughter is my only fantasy. To be his feast night after night is my only desire. The sensual human man is the sweetest death, and I can only hope  to taste it.
Wild King! I'd bet he tastes of wild strawberries, sweet with a kiss of tartness. He is passion and tenderness in tandem. He is a heat that melts the resolve slowly, like chocolate. A witch such as myself could never dream of claiming such power.
I wait for the Wild King in my scorched dollhouse. At night, I can hear him howl and sing. Sometimes I imagine he is closer than the night before. Let me have my delusion. He is not at all mine, but I pretend I could have him. My greatest fear. My only lover. The only lover I dare not choose.

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.

The silver fog slithers around
my ankles, slowly winding up
my legs with a serpent's silk move.
Squeezing her fingers, my mother
and I approach the barn-red house.

It breathes heavily and its exhale
reveals a backyard cemetery.
As the mist settles, a limestone
hand reaches out to ****** her away.

Down the street the dollhouse neighbor
cannot see me screaming, weeping,
I call for help.

Brown-green water drips from
the bathroom ceiling--
the plumber continues plumbing.

Sweat beads form on the tip of
the fat priest's nose, as he climbs
the broken stairs, he continues preaching.

The porcelain girl wears her mother's
brown-stained ivory prom dress.
Chanting, Sonofabitch. Sonofabitch.

They cannot see me--
I flail my limbs.
They cannot hear me--
Their own cursing drown out my voice.

She moves with
      Grace
The Gracious meeting in denial
He's the baron of beef delicious side
Reproduction picture full slide
The most
   Casual face

Met the eternal masterly
    Artist face
Saying Oh! Grace
The other side of midnight
     Mask Face
She could overjoy anyone's
Heart in the right place
    Deceiving Face

The miracle of love principles
Such skepticism could it be overjoyed realism

But a hell of a time with heavenly bliss
What a shock when he gave me my kiss
His Crooked face to longevity nose
Hiding place A-Rose

Beachy trance-set face

Highlands of Scotland,
anybody would want her
     *Joyful face

He's the baronial
Secluded caves but risky dives
The turn only If?? I
could turn back the time
The events strictly
confidential

Her apple cheeks bathing suit
He is picking her fruit
So soothing the fiddle
Tinman whistles the ladies harps

Their medieval moment's help!!!
The swords  bust to his manly chest
Sleeping Inn New castle west
Their best bedrest

The cupboards open overjoyed
invitation decorative cans
Of greens, pinks, purple passion

And flourless chocolate cakes
Powdered lips love his reaction

She was seductively awe-inspiring
The top hills of Ireland grass
vividly raised her legs
The bowl next to her
The Rose blush wines
Bare it Fruit and figs

The baronial tug of war wigs

Melodious birds the
Grand One
The thousand piano words
Overjoyed but
under the {Baronial} weather

So lordly new threads tailored
White-collared
carpenter pants
Men of the herds
She's the
Caron French boutique

There ****** desires
The creature within
Wildly mating like critiques

Her perfumes so extinct
mysteriously
Overjoyed her heart
So cultured violin strings
Dollhouse Castle to restore
With her unique touches,
he wanted more

The steps tiring like a killed deer
every muscle he could hear

Over elaborating how people are dating
With a  stamped from the very
heart  approval
But hard times such laboring
Sitting in her
overjoyed chair
His face all Scrooged
no gifts of flowers
What are the odds of this pair

Over and over again her rainbow
her sensitivity we need longevity
The  endless walls are caving in
We are not so overjoyed by
this monster garden
She had her first breakdown
Going up the
Jack and Jill Ireland hill
In the longtime what long run
Way too short
It didn't come from above

The vintage oldtimer
radios sitting
together with
family listening
so long ago
So commercialized
The crazy shows
Where do you really want to go,
you just want to shut everything off

He called her the powder puff
Waiting for the nocturnal star
Those scrubs and hot rubs shower
Over my knee-high boots so in
love cahoots

Oh! It's her
The smart student
Owl Hoot whats to boot
Eating her shepherd's pie
so lordly full lips word-me
Ireland Holy Land
of love and beauty

Overly scrupulousness
The time of blessings

But the baronial loved to be
overly entertained
And she would sit there  
Blue-blooded royal dishes
Got flushed away no wishes

Oversimplification
Like the hardest love
of multiplication
The ****** overstimulation
Over embellished
But you're still positive
overjoyed
But why did she
want to vanish

Over-programming
    Web-Face
Destroyed her
Apple jubilee computer

Spiritual Zen
Or new lover Amen
Ever touched by Ireland maidens
Like the crimson and clover
I do believe in the
Four leaf clover Face

Like the only thing she picked
were the weeds
More beauty of life and deeds
Or tons of sorrow wondering
how she
would feel tomorrow?
We will never know

My grandfather would listen to the Hornsea evening tides
he would compare them to incantations where ecstasy resides
grandmother complained that her husband was never really home
he compared wood to the soul in death searching for a form
a carpenter-he built my sister a dollhouse and me a horse
grandfather heard the grass growing he understood it's force
he would stare into the dolls house and share his visions
that night winds would blow the cottage free of it's fictions
On her last night grandmother opened the window and heard the sea
that night her husband finally arrived home and she for eternity
he would make wings for the horse and build a boat-his last creation
sailing at night he muttered his wife's name like an incantation
sleeping till morning the wind would carry his dreams in its suitcase
staring into the dolls house he watched grandmothers sleeping face

The Lego castles I built when I was little
Aren't strong enough to keep you safe
But they are the best I can do.
And I promise
The collapsed dollhouse in the garage
Is not a fair representation of me.
Though it might be a bit too close to the truth.
And I've never been good at Jacks
But I promise to pick up all your pieces
Every time you get thrown around.
And I got good practice
Taking care of people
Through all the stories I made up when I was five
And the rubber heads of my Barbies
We're always still connected to the plastic bodies
At the end.
So I think I have good experience
On how to stay alive in the real world
So maybe we could live in Lego houses forever
Please?

My father made me a makeshift dollhouse
one year for Christmas.
It sits in my room now, having been untouched for years.
It's cheaply made from a recycled dresser's wood
The insides are bare, lacking furniture.
When it's obvious flaws are ignored
it's sort of perfect.

Like it's patheticness has some charm.
I can't help but think that it is the perfect metaphor
for my family.

Porcelain skin,
white with rosy cheeks.
Lips sewn shut,
concealing her shrieks.
Knotted hair,
with pink pretty bows.
Smiling mouth,
lips red as a rose.
Eyes open,
staring at blank space.
Pretty dresses,
covered all in lace.
Broken teacups,
will soon fall apart.
Never revealing,
her lack of a heart.
Perfect girl,
with an alluring complexion.
Fails to see,
her and her reflection.
Flawless,
you can’t see her cracks.
Scarred,
only seeing whites and blacks.
Collecting dust,
sitting on a shelf.
Contemplating,
life itself.

Surrounded is a place where figments and imagination thrive.

Beyond the plastic walls is a place so dark and treacherous that true love doesn't exist.

Acrylic painted dolls sit and watch nightmares come to die, and dreams become corrupt.

The dollhouse is a place of naive joy and agony.

Rearranged piece by piece, changed and altered from the outside,
but the structure always remains the same.

The morning after I killed myself, I woke up.
I splashed myself with cold water, and walked over to my dollhouse kitchen to make a cup of hot green tea in my favorite green ceramic mug. I cut myself avocados, laid them across my toast, and sprinkled it with pepper. My brother was still asleep, his covers crumpled under half his body and a leg hanging off the edge. He was dreaming of his favorite thing about the previous day, and that made me smile, as I tucked him back under the protection of his blanket.

The morning after I killed myself, I fell in love.
Not once, but many times. Not with one person, but with multiple. I fell in love with my mom and the way she looked like the happiest woman in the world when she laughed at us, and how from sitting behind her in the car it looked as if she was always smiling because her cheekbones were so high. I fell in love with the way she wiped her eyes with the top of her wrist, as the steam and aroma from the hot food she cooked, floated upwards. I fell in love with my dad and the way he walked through the backyard, moving his hands around as he played out important discussions in his head. I fell in love with my brother and the way he tried to talk to us about CNN news at over the dinner table every night. I fell in love with the way he would impatiently say my name as his eyes lit up, wanting to tell me something that excited him, or that he found funny. I fell in love with a little girl I caught dancing with her sister outside 85, on the way back from my math class. I fell in love with the curly-haired boy in my English class my freshman year, who sheepishly told me he switched back and forth from British and American accents from time to time, because it was just something that was a part of him. I fell in love with my best friend and the way she got so passionate about the importance of history and what she learned from her AP history class, over a Skype call after midnight. I fell in love with everyone I ever met, and saw them as entire galaxies, complex and burning bright yet simple at the same time. Because people are beautiful. People are beautiful.

The morning after I killed myself, I recognized kindness.
I recognized it when there were more than one million words in the English language to choose from, but every time, my neighbors chose the kindest ones. I recognized it in the mother I saw sitting outside the café on a bench, running her elegant fingers through her teenage daughter’s hair, who was telling her about her worries. I recognized it when a homeless lady gave another homeless man all the money she had made that day, simply because he had a daughter to feed. I found kindness in my friend when she ran to the Starbucks across the street to comfort a woman she did not know who was crying after her autistic son had a tantrum.

The morning after I killed myself, I took a walk.
I sauntered along the street, and I saw the bright green leaves of the sugar gum trees, that in a few months would turn gold and orange. The birds were chirping their warbling melodies, and the cool air was feeding my lungs. The sun was still rising, and the sky had a little bit of orange in one corner, and a little bit of pink in another. I sat down on the bleachers of my school, and waited for the sunrise to unfold.

The morning after I killed myself, I held my beautiful grandma’s hands.
I felt how small and cold they were, but what warmth they still preserved as her fingers tightly held mine. My fingers grazed the top of fists, the bumpy veins giving them a delicate texture. I saw the four golden bangles she had never taken off of her left wrist, and I wondered how many dishes those hands had washed, how many clothes they had folded, and how many meals they had made.

The morning after I killed myself, I watched a live symphony.
I sat dazed, in view of the wine-red instruments in front of me, from the contented mold of my chair. I listened to the beautiful wavelengths of sound being produced right in front of me, the music creating my sanctuary. The conductor created the loudest expression of music on stage, despite making no sound. His arms waved as wildly as the sea, but was no less graceful than an ebbing tide. I looked at the depth of the basses, the elegance of the cellos, the poise of the violins, and the dignity of the viola. The fingers of the cellists slid up and down, the strings undulating with every phrase. A pulse was beating within my own veins, and as long the piece lasted, I was the music.

The morning after I killed myself, I looked in the mirror.
I saw my almond-shaped eyes, and how my eyelashes outlined them perfectly. I saw the vertebrae of my spine, and how they looked like a line of marbles, across my back. I saw the curls on the top of my head that I’d hated when I was younger, because they stuck out as if I had my own atmosphere around my head. I saw my knuckles, and how they separated into mountains and valleys. I saw the beauty mark on my left ankle, and the dimple that formed when I smiled. I looked in the mirror, and I finally fell in love with what I saw.

The morning after I killed myself, I tried to get back.
I tried to talk sense into a girl who had made a horrible mistake. I told her about the avocados, and the valleys and mountains that appeared every time she crumpled her fists. I told her about how beautiful her mom was when she laughed, and how warm it felt to hold her grandma’s hands. I told her about how her brother said he always dreamt about his favorite thing about the previous day, and how her friends had so much kindness in them. I told her about the green leaves scattered over the ground, and the pink parts of sunsets. I told her about the orchestra where she would find peace, and the shy boy who switched accents.

May your tea be just the right temperature when you take a sip, and may you happen to glance through the window just when the rays of light are falling perfectly. May you lock eyes with someone just as they send you a warm smile, and may you turn on the radio just as your favorite song starts. May you love the ink pen you pick up, as it glides across paper smoothly, and may you pick up a novel to read that changes your thoughts on something important.

You don't hear me when i say, mom, please wake up, dad's with a ****, and your son is smoking cannabis.

No one ever listens this wallpaper glistens don't let them see what goes down in the kitchen.

Places places get in your places theow on your dress and pur on your dollfaces

everyone thinks that we're perfect please don't let them look through the curtains.

Picture, picture smile for the picture
Pose with your brother won't you be a good sister.

everyone thinks that we're perfect please don't let them look through the curtains

A wave of people who all suffer from depression's undercurrent leans over me until gravity pushes the water over my head and I drown in the depressive maelstrom of lost, distraught family members with the same weak psyche which I suffer from. Only the dollhouse owners can live a picture-perfect life where everything is antibacterial and anti-depressant while we get jammed between the walls until we can no longer scream for help and tears become our only weapon. The moisture from the rivers that sourced in our eyes penetrates into the walls and seeps into the floor, then mold and mildew infects this otherwise perfect dollhouse. I'd rather drown in depression than live in this false cardboard house with drawers and cabins filled with pills and where no one knows who takes what and why there is constantly bought more and more even when the pills tumble out of all the doors. I'm waiting for a tsunami, which can split the dollhouse that I call my home, hoping the walls detaches and the pills flush away.

whispering smoke
and twist around me
dancing a tarantella in the corner of the room
that frantic dance
distracting from the truth

you and your doll house ways
controlling the letters
the things that you hear
the looks on your face
i am done
i am fallen
a celebrity in my school
but no less
no less
than a figurehead

a witch's death mask turned up on the black
market--rumored to have shrunk herself, leaving
behind a thumb size cast.
ending up on the living room wall of an elaborately
detailed dollhouse, conjuring the whole transaction.
remanifesting like rot's backhand--her nose touching
her crutched chin, which conceals a sunken mouth
frittering away two teeth.
she pokes around the dollhouse with her *******
bouncing off her knees, as phlegmy laughter trickles
***** down bamboo stalk legs.
her *** is a wrinkly retraction, covered by strands of
white hair that appear fished-out of her skull.
she's just fertilizer patch, wet & wild about hell playing
dollhouse--& how wearing the death mask seems to
say something about her, even while pretending.
she must leave a few telling traces, so she peels off nursery
wallpaper--with leafy apples between slow to learn letters.
throws a black *** on a fireplace, making its flames shoot
up & fall like a timed fountainhead--caressing it as an
expectant mother would, the very joy of a spellbook.
until her fingers blister, and their swirlingly green prints
can be deflated--worshipping how dead skin clings to life.
then she slips into a plastic mirror & begins squeezing
blackheads from her overarching beak, until wormy ****
sprouts from the mirror.
flicked off into a limnal-drab sink, then climbs out of the
mirror & wills all her hair to shed.
exiting into the greater house to observe the man who
purchased her death mask sleep.

this noise is too loud for these porcelain ears of mine
they scatter with cracks as the noise grows near
this abuse is too rough for this porcelain skin of mine
each hit I take scuffs the baby pink paint on my cheeks
this sadness is too sad for this porcelain heart of mine
the melancholy that has been brewing inside of you for so long is now forced into my fragile soul
there seems to be no more love in this home;
I guess thats why they call it a dollhouse

I tripped on a forest of roots & lost my clothes.
When this happened, I felt less a lady
in shame of uncovering from pink, frilly things

the shelter like feathers on a peacock or
ribbons track-marking a braid –

I was enclosed in such a house that I must have
become it myself. ****, I saw tiger-stripes
eating their way from my hips to bottom
and made a big taproot, a radix to the physical

me, as rosy as a flower in the dead of spring
even billowing as petals will for wedding vows –
the single, womanly cavity I concealed

how together we became such a dollhouse
for nature and its ***** hair:
I, taught to play with my own frilly, pink thing.

They have been in a romance since I was a teen
There’s an explanation to what I mean
You are probably surprised in what Dolls can do
Yet it is beyond ****** in how far what Barbie and Ken romance went through
Barbie and Ken are like the flavor of Popcorn with sugar added
Love with the everlasting kiss
Eye to eye contact that the world has never missed
Barbie and Ken being the well known couple the world knows
The spotlight that shines on both
Is there a wedding in the works?
Rumor has it, that there might be a baby stork
Well Barbie and Ken where romance may not end
It will be a new life to begin
The name of the couple alone always responded on can
But the world a waits on a wedding but don’t know when
Barbie and Ken has always been a couple to follow
The future will be a surprise one day and could be tomorrow
Well that’s the story of Barbie and Ken
A couple that truly stands out
One can only shout
But I will let you figure out.

You were an architect
Who built sturdy walls around me,
And hung up perfect pictures...
Ones I mistook for truth.

Had I been less content,
In this dollhouse you created,
I would have seen the one next door...
The one you built for her.

I was dreaming of you kissing me just softly between my eyes
and of children chasing a lamb around the silence of a grave.* – Alex Hoshor

I comb one hand with the other. beside me my son moves his jaw front to back, his chin massaging the ridge in the skull of our new puppy. we are snug in a velvet chair. my groomed right hand was last week reset by an accidental flash of fire and to look at it now makes one think of snakes veining then leaving the earth.

I fear I may soon have to field the proffered inquiries of angels lobbying for a pet heaven. I fear that fear is just something we say.

     the dust on my daughter’s dollhouse worries me. disuse worries me. these small shoes on step at the dollhouse door.

it is the simplest thought that it could’ve been my boy, my girl, at flame. but enough that sleep of late seems cat nap to its greater insomnia.

     awake, a mob of naked children some saying excuse me move gently past or leap the car or belly under. I walk from it slowly as if I am pregnant or as if in front of me one is pregnant. I lose my foot on the discarded handle of an axe and lose my way thinking it is the found arm of a puppet. I know I am bare because suddenly there is sand in my toes and the pregnant women are here to sunbathe. it’s the gas can tells me turn back.

how long have we been friends? the length of my belt, bed of copper or garden, removed with my left hand and laid.

I am melting into place/
Thinking of somewhere else.
Every frantic glance
is a flash
Of something else I've felt and
My existence is longing/
My soul only yearns
While my mind on a kite string
Floats away with the birds
and I am bigger than this.

(I am more than a wish)

My guilt, like a rock,
It sinks in my skull
Slides down through my backbone
Is heavy to pull
(Only dragged by the fool)
Regret gathers and pools.

But my heart pumps this blood
as though it's paid wages/
Piano fingers shuffle chapters created by pages
Of books
Of mistakes
I have made through the ages.

Perhaps if I study enough
I will learn
And perhaps if I smoke
enough I will burn.



So I Burn The Effigy Doll
(how pale and small).

i am choking for words.
i hacked off the tip of my tongue
to spite my quick wit-
stumble over it.

lusting for beauty through text/
creation is hollow at best-

a dollhouse
a fantasy, dystopian as per usual
for an idle mind
losing hours and
pickled in hate's brine.
   salt in the wound
   salt in the wound

angst, angst, teenage angst.
a kiddie anarchist.
stop fighting it.

turn up the stereotypical.
depression playing on the radio.
don't try to be more original.
what haven't we seen?

choking for words and
stuck on painted portraits
all is well, but never exciting
i'm exiting this uneventful existence
all for once and once for all.

-and you thought there was a winner
buried in this chrysalis-
well, the rhythm has returned,
but i'm sick

of painted portraits and lost hours
and sugar-coated expectations of the truth
how uneventful, how unexciting
and i'm tired of razorblades,
but at least they're honest

speaking down, insults and
lies and i know i need to sleep
but i'm fighting it.

i'm ready to move on, but not for long
not for long and
you'll see me as a butterfly someday.

I’m telling you to keep your eyes
off the ground because
one day you’ll be under it, I’ll be under it
And soon you’ll realize that I’m frosted with gasoline since birth,
so the right person could throw a match
You had a millisecond glimpse into the destruction I can bring
My blood is lighter fluid
If I’m dying here, I’m doing it face down on the sidewalk
with his name carved into the cement
like the stars on Hollywood Boulevard
I’m the picture of you on your first day of school
Your first skinned knee, the the bugs your six year old self
burned under a magnifying glass with the assistance of the sun
My Mother slept through my childhood
and Daddy loved infidelity
I knew when you looked past my white picket fence
I loved you
Whatever that meant
Whatever that means

I always hated the color of your emotions
On these dull and rainy days
Haven't seen the sun for months
Can somebody fax me the apocalypse
Can we just go back into a Big Crunch
Don't care about time anymore it just slips
Through my fingers

I'm not perfect like you think, I'm patchwork
My design has so many flaws and quirks
I'm made of skin and bones, some tell me if I'd try to swim I'd sink
Wish I was more of a liar so maybe I could float

What a tease you are in your little floral dress
And your needle and your thread and your thimble and the little squeaky noises from your rubber sneakers tread
Thought you were so cute when you'd ask me to drink my wine and eat my bread
Who knew a sip would turn into a bag and a loaf of bread

I hated how you looked up when I would look down
And the town felt like a bell tower full of time where I never heard the bell sound
And when you would close your ears it felt like a tsunami had hit my face and turned me into a zombie walking frown
Where my brain was so angry it turned red and filled with blood until I drowned

And there you sat that afternoon playing with your alabaster Barbie that oddly represented you
And you combed her hair and gave her a personality that you could choose
And you forgot all about the needle and thread, and all my patchwork of yellow and red and blue
You forgot all about me and if you would have mixed all the colors right you wouldn't have anything to lose
But here I am with my wiry string and my patchwork bruise
I've got smoke in my lungs and oil in my stomach fueling an industrial revolution that's way past due

My mother asks me to buy her milk and I stand in line at the grocery store.
I hold the milk and I remember seeing our housekeeper's daughter yesterday, a 16 year old child,  breastfeeding her 1 year old son.
I feel sorry that when her culture sees a little girl playing with her dollhouse, it asks the little girl to be the doll.
I feel sorry that when her culture sees a little girl fixing the ribbons over her braids, it thinks of ways to tie her legs as tightly as her hair.
I feel sorry that when her culture sees a little girl, it doesn’t see a little girl.
I feel that I call it her culture when I was born in the same city.
I see the line was moving while I stood still.
The woman standing behind me holding a jar of coffee, a pack of cigarettes, and a pair of tired shoulders gives me a look for not paying attention.
I take a step forwards,
I look behind me;
I smile politely at her, and say “I’m sorry”.