Toybox

Dear diary; I write to say,
I’ve fallen for the plastic man.
It’s wonderful, this sweet romance,
the way he makes my body dance.

He warned her, he was not at fault.
It’s these plastic arms, he says.
They bend around you for a while,
and lock you in a guess.
And if you aren’t sure about it,
you should know it’s safe to say
the plastic arms don’t love you,
they just stick around to play.

You… didn’t have to lie…
it would have been ok…
I wouldn’t have cried…

Dear diary, I write to tell
that I’m not sure just what I feel.
I’m strung about, and on the line,
but sure that both are we just fine.

She was not a partner
such like he made her a tool.
He played her like a puppet,
and he played her like a fool.
Danced around against her will,
jostled from a fantasy,
she slept for fourteen hours
to escape the dark reality.

So… if you were done…
you could have said…
I wouldn’t have cried…

Dear diary, I write to share
that things aren’t as they should be.
I’m locked within a wooden throne,
with wooden skin and wooden bones.

She’d been alone and waiting to
be pulled out, and be played with.
Care avoiding putting splinters in the
plastic that he’s made with.
Woken up with aches and pains,
dropped marionette upon the floor,
it’s clear as crystal to her now
he’s not int’rested anymore.

Now… I’m lying alone…
I’m hurt, yet unfeeling…
I wish I could cry…

Dear diary, I write to dismiss
true reality as falseness.
I’m not a girl… he’s not a boy…
We’re both just toys… I’m just a toy…

If he returned tonight to play,
I’d dance and dance the night away,
dance and dance the night away.