Dollhouse

Wed, 01/04/2017 - 16:10 -- Flora

Dollhouse

By: Ryan Cross 

I fear for my own happiness or even my will to keep moving forward pretending in this Barbie house full of plastic appliances and pasted emotions. This smile fades as the years go by you know. Because you know that you know that you’re the broken doll that never gets played with. The doll with the limp eye and missing arm. The doll left at the bottom of the bin, lost in the disarray of plastic shoes and clear marble barrettes that cling to ripped doll hair and Velcro fasteners. Your plastic shiny skin isn’t the same color as it used to be when you were mint condition and still in the box. Screws swing loose and you don’t sit up as well in the seat like you used to. You can’t imagine the life you used to have, being played with, every passing minute and day. Loved and adored until the day mommy came home with a newer model. Mommy bought you a new toy, a new doll to play with, a new one to spend your days with. And there you are, left at the bottom of the bin like an old tear-soaked tissue. Replaced and Displaced in the heart of child whom taken to the “Mint”. It’s fresh new painted smile is smug as she hugs her the way that she’d done you.

This poem is about: 
Me
My family

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