Broken Baby Doll

I lay (lying) here, peacefully pondering the outcomes of wandering through your bed of roses (complete with thorns) when it hit me (jabbed at me like white hot nails)…

Whereupon is the cloud you used to lay?

I tilt my head to the side (mind shifting and changing) and feel it (bile) rise up. My body twists and moulds, slowly forming stitches over my mouth and in my joints.

Just your broken baby doll, baby. Sitting on this dusty shelf.

And inside the world is laughing at me as I ram your words down my throat (paper cuts on my stomach). I swallow it all (your garden is convoluted and I’m being cut to shreds by barbs) and begin to feel strangely warm.

It’s gotta be the internal bleeding, love. You’ll get used to it.

I shudder/shudder/SHUDDER as this strange wave of pleasure (nausea) sweeps me.

Where is that pedestal I once placed you on?

Have I LOST MY FAITH?

No…

Maybe…

Yes…

And the baby doll bleeds herself dry, love.

Because she loves it so much.

Pick her up with the gentleness reserved.

The Broken Baby Doll fell outta touch

(…You know she’s screaming(denying)…)

“I am not your broken baby doll!”