A string wrapped around your fingers
Threaded through my heart
Pretty patterns crisscross with my blood vessels
Paper butterflies dancing about
In my stomach of felt and fuzz
These lungs of mine expand and contract
Filled with your very own carbon dioxide
My popsicle stick bones ache
Splintered from heavy use
A doll for your entertainment
Made with love
For making love
But it isn't really love
Now is it?