August 3, 2015


From my painted glass eyes
I see a place I don't belong.
If I move, I’m quickly trampled
by people who are giants.

It’s terrifying out there,
where friends and enemies wander,
dropping and shattering me.
With purpose, 
by accident,
it doesn’t matter.
I’m broken just the same.

I’m walking in a world
where no one hears my words
and no one can see me,
and nobody wants too. 

They can put me in a box on a shelf with a label,
so they don’t have to think about me anymore.
Then they go back to the real people—
the thinking, feeling, caring people,
people with minds of their own
who don’t robotically do what they’re told,
people who aren’t dolls.

Dolls should shut up.
Their porcelain mouths were made to smile,
not speak.
They wouldn’t be saying anything worthwhile anyway.

If someone would look at me
that would be something.
If someone would be silent
that would be better than talking
in a voice that is meant to be mine.

I want to shout loud enough
to make my china throat crack
and run until my legs break beneath me
and cry until my eyes cloud over,
so the real people can look
at my crushed body, split open,
and see inside me.
Is it a hollow chasm blackened by their words,?
Is there nothing inside but what they said there was?
Was there me?