look at me now,
a husk of my former self.
Look at me.
Patiently waiting to be mutilated
upon the doll maker's shelf.
Soon, my golden flesh will be scrubbed
'till it shines ivory white.
My powerful dark locks,
bleached of their obsidian glory to the pale yellow of piss.
My gown, forged of pure starlight,
Replaced by silks of fiery red.
my eyes now hollows to be filled
by porcelain balls that once occupied
someone else's head.
The doll maker steps back.
Proud of its work.
Its grotesque mutilation of innocents.
its proudest quirk.
Now i am perfect.
A picture of health,
like every other project.
upon the doll maker's shelf
Pineapplecoker
YOU ARE READING
My Spiraling Thoughts Turn Into Words
ПоэзияThinking can be dangerous. Even you must admit. All your spiraling thoughts whirling around inside. Trapping you in the one place you cannot hide. You try to escape. And like chains, your thoughts capture your heart, And arrest it between the two he...
