The Paperweight Doll

November 6, 2011


She is a doll;

bought for money.

She is a toy;

pieced for entertainment.

She is a human,

if you'd like to say.


Glassy eyed stare, wonder whether

she's ever gonna get out of here.

To no extent but the dread of her fear

and the fear in her eyes as she pierces the nine.


Looking past passing trees,

passing people, staring like they can't


Her but she's not just an illusion,

not just a picking for the eyes,

like a berry that's pretty

but sparkling and bitter.


No, not another one of those.


A doll made of fire

a drinking of the wine

in blood and good sound,

she was made like knives

in grinding stone, in buried ground.


Glassy eyes

like the finest porcelain,

but you pretty piece of art;

you just stare and stare,

don't you speak a word?

Don't you even care?


You make it a sin to feel,

you make mistakes a death sentence,

and you make me, unbearable.


You make needle and thread,

sword and shield.

You make flesh and bones,

haughty messes.


You made me great,

while I was locked in the cellar.

You made me late,

then let me recover.


I healed and broke,

and peeled and worked,

and sweat to the end

with dusty cursed novels

and gagged bound hands,

shaking again, shaking again.


I'd borrow your eyes,

your gypsy gleaming glare,

if mine eyes weren't a soul,

each individually fixed

upon the place on the wall

watching you sleep,

watching you run.


These walls are mirrors,

they caress me warmth.

They spit like silk,

but still.

I cannot sleep.