though maybe we arent made of flesh
maybe we are porcelain, articulations stiff and fragile
or plastic
plastic seems appropriate

there are no bones, we are hollow
maybe that is the reason why some feel empty
that or heavy, of cement inside
or of lead paint that disables us perpetually

of girls, they need perfection
detail painted on them temporary to appeal to the ones that play
overtime, the features smudge. features become unrecognizable
you realize, this isnt the doll i grew up with
what happened to this poor lady?

and of guys, not much are sold around.
theres nothing much to say on my part unfortunately
i wouldnt know experience through eyes that arent my own
as there are many stories that differ
as same with the girls. i just provided my own, from the perspective of a doll of course

though it is unlike dolls to grow big
there is not just one size of a doll, but it is unusual to see barbie a different size
everybody likes barbie
she set the standard for what dolls are supposed to be,
as with its other copies. bratz, for example
but no matter what, everybody likes barbie

its expected for dolls to turn out like barbie
the standard, the tradition, the expectation.
but plastic is not meant to be torn apart. only welded and melted.
recycled for something better

nowadays this plastic body is for nothing
nothing but as a stand to hang clothes on
for comparison, and possibly for love
a plastic body somehow torn apart and rebuilt off of sheer determination
melted, deformed, but stands on feet to prove a point

now it decomposes in its dollhouse,
the other dolls that the children used to play with are lost
she remains as the last doll inside the house
with a single child, who has grown up, forgotten about

the clothes it wears is torn
the plastic its made of, scarred
the face, altered because of her many attempts to make it appealing
she never liked its face, but it has given up on it growing up
the hair, shedding, though unnatural for a doll
it stares at abyss waiting for her to come back
to come back to the toy it used to joke

she does eventually stare back at it
and it stares at her. sharpie bleeding through her facade
the scent of familiar alcohol throughout the dollhouse
doll tears her apart as she did with it
and now she is asking for forgiveness from nothing but herself
trapped in a cycle of grief from the doll she used to play with

she stares at the doll that looks back at her
surprised that the doll doesnt look away
but maybe, its time to recycle her for good
damage done wont go away, but the doll itself will