n0t a waste 0f space.

porcelain doll

porcelain doll, Caribbean eyes,

pretty face and painted lips.

ghostly doll, lonely pupils,

papery skin, cracked mouth.

naive doll, glassy iris,

pale complexion, free-flowing tongue.

you're lying, you are no doll, but a demon cloaked in lace.

you're sweet because you know no different, as you twist knives into the earth.

crumbling cement, hollow homes, are the dust on your fine china.

porcelain doll, you create your own scars,

in the marble mansion of your globe.

of course, this world only extends so far.

because porcelain doll, the land out there,

beyond your perfect lawn,

is far more beautiful than the monsters you have created from your jewels,

with roars that sound like money in pockets,

and growls that sound like empty stomachs, armor of skeleton frames,

poking through translucent skin, hipbones for knives, ribs as a cage.

plates of rich, rich, perfectly untouched, food.

never to be consumed, never to be touched,

because food that others crave to live,

is really just poison for you, dear doll.

the world out there should probably be ugly, for people are in pain.

deceptively cheery, colored cement houses have trash on lawns,

kings wearing sunscreen and fanny packs.

cracked roads, hot homes, poor and powerless people try to survive.

the ice-cold demons you have created, that eat us up alive.

but they work together, homes and hearths, friends and family, the strength of trust.

their monsters are not inside their heads, so they line up with sticks and stones.

but you, porcelain doll, are stuck much worse,

trying to fight neurons in your brain.

because dolls are perfect, but nothing's perfect,

so their monsters are the ones they make.