This doll that you love

is a silent child,

an empty mute,

faded and stale.

She is clay-cold, chalk-pale,

so rigid, she could

SNAP.

 

White pools of painted tears,

like moonslices,

have dropped from the dark sky

and rock at the brim

as she holds back the spill

and the fear.

The light is out

behind the vacant gaze

of those baby blues.

 

Her brows

are sparsely-feathered fledglings.

Broken.

Lame.

But inside her smooth, flat chest,

Mother Bird manically flaps.

Trapped.

 

Her unblemished porcelain

was fingertipped smooth

to a blush,

and lips brushed

to invite apricot kisses.

Her chin is dipped

in deference.

 

Scratch her

and she will not bleed.

She is unflinching

to the pinch of perversion.

Her screams are stifled

by blocked apertures.

She understands dead.

 

She is no slack-mouthed whore,

cushioned and pliant.

Compliant

as you pose her stiff limbs

and seize a lifeless embrace.

 

Just look at her face.

She is a sad mannequin.

Touched up.

Stripped.

So much missing.