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Writer's pictureYours Truly

Doll Face

Updated: May 29, 2019



~

Every step I take

is catatonic,

an acute contrast to

the way my thoughts

bolt about the

convoluted labyrinth

of my psyche.


I couldn't stop crying this morning,

so I took an extra Cipralex*

in the hopes that

my mind would slow down,

even though it has

only been twelve hours

since I last took one,

even though it is

a once-a-day type of thing.


When I go to brush my teeth,

I stare, bemused,

at the bristles,

how it appears as though

they have been passed under

a fisheye lens.


I feel like I am framed

in a Margaret Keane painting.

Every object or face

I happen to fixate on

seems so comically magnified

that it's actually quite sad.


For I simply haven't the room

in this heart of mine

to house something so

colossal.


I am a broken home.


I try to cover up

the blemishes

the thumbtacks have

left in the walls with

glow-in-the-dark stickers

and photographs of

Audrey Hepburn.

But the stickers have begun

to bubble and peel,

the photographs never

resting flat against their surface.


Your typical bandaid solution--

but bandaids don't heal scars,

bandaids are only for pretending

the scars aren't there.


When it is dark out,

the scars look like tree branches,

the type that scritch-tap

against the window pane

only to startle you awake

as the world approaches

the pinnacle of night.


I've strung up

fairy lights round

the perimeter of each room,

in the hopes that the scars

won't appear so ghastly

amongst the shadows.


Sometimes,

I plug too many

lights in at once,

the circuits overload,

and then--

blackout.


This dollhouse has shattered.


Up until now,

the other girls and boys

loved to play with me,

though they never did play nice.


They pried my doors

from their hinges,

stole away the secrets

nailed beneath the floorboards

only to shun me when it came to

the tellings of their own

indiscretions.


their own indiscretions.


Atop the satin bedsheets

their tear stains,

some clear dollops,

some mascara-winged streaks

across the pillowcases.


But when I would cry?

The corridors would

ring with silence--

with the echoes of

nobody.


Empty.


Forgotten.


In my mutilated aftermath,

the little boys and girls

no longer had any use for me,

for rarely does anyone wish

to entertain the broken.

A cruelly ironic situation

considering they were the ones

who tore me apart in the first place

(but god forbid

they ever take responsibility

for their transgressions).


So they hid me away

in their attics.

at the back of their closets.

underneath their beds

amongst the lost socks;

the dust bunnies;

the monsters.


This is what it looks

like to be continuously

taken advantage of

without ever quite

mustering the courage

to stand up for yourself.


I am the marionette girl.


Eyes a porcelain glaze,

I watch you leave.

I try to look away,

but the strings

protruding from my scalp

pull me upright.


There is no liberation

for the betrayed.


There is only sadness

for the betrayal,

only pills to stymie

the sadness.


But like these strings,

this sadness remains

tethered-to-me


(always).


~


"Why do you want to kill yourself, Jade? So people will miss you? Is that it?"


"I want to kill myself because I know they wouldn't."

 

Footnote:

*A common antidepressant; Cipralex is also used to treat anxiety.

 
 

Image Source:

Dollhouse burning gif (n.d.). [image] Available at: https://giphy.com/gifs/vintage-fire-house-l3q2BErV4hwx7RKpi [Accessed 5 May. 2019].

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