A thousand blades couldn’t hurt as much as your words. But a thousand blades leave a thousand scars. A thousand regrets and a thousand evanescent memories.

All in the moment, but the moment is gone far too quickly.

And like a thousand blades, you leave her body lacerated and disfigured.

She is but a doll to you.

An ugly doll, the one on the lowest shelf, the one missing an eye and wearing an ugly yellow dress. The one with the crooked smile and ugly yarn hair and the stitches coming undone.

The one you feel sorry for. The one you pity. But you laugh and call her ugly anyways.

You yell at her, hit her; you throw her to the floor. And all she does is look up at you with her one eye and smile her crooked smile.

And you hate her. You hate her for smiling. You hate her because she can’t do anything but smile her crooked smile. You hate her because she’s ugly and you hate her for being a piece of you.

You hate her, because she is you.

You look at her. Her one eye looks back, reflecting you in the glossy black button surface. You see yourself, and you hate it. You hate her. You hate yourself.

And then you sew her back together.

You put her all back together, stitch up her sides and her dress and her face. Over the scars and through the scars and make new scars and open old scars.

You pat her hair and smile your own crooked smile back at her.

You fix her.

And know tomorrow – tomorrow, you’ll break her once again.