PORCELAIN GIRL

Porcelain skin
ruby cheeks
she peers out
beneath long silky lashes
and eyes the world
And she looks so
pretty
So sane
A model of what
everyone wants
a dolly to be
Soft smile
Cool demeanor
and that studious
bent that
keeps her sailing
along smooth blue waves
This, this
is what you see

But beneath the pretty glittery flesh
lies a secret
you dare not imagine,
could never fathom
For a terrible mistake was made
when she broke free from
her mould and
sprung to life
A few little wires
were not quite hooked up
A few tiny bolts were
forgotten by the wayside
And now the porcelain girl
she screams
and rages
against the black hole within
Yet this, you see not;
you see a small grin
She raises her eyes to
plea for remorse
But no words emerge
from her lips
No words to be heard
An unsung
anti-love song
that holds testament to
years of shame
and pain

And so she speaks
the only way she can
With actions, with gestures,
miming her calamity
while you smile,
and nod,
and say “What a good girl,
More glitter, more glue” --
And she seems good as new
She dresses in silver to reflect
the sun that stings her eyes
with tiny knives
A glittered smile doesn’t fade

But the smooth porcelain
hides a tattered fabric within,
and tonight the outside must match in
Her soft little hands
express what she cannot say;
this ignorance of her plight
is about to decay
The defect surfaces through her sin
A sticky moist trail of tears
beg to be wept – and her
poseable arms comply

A flicker and a flash
kills the illusion,
Short circuits the guise,
She is pretty flesh
no more
The smooth porcelain
shattered on the floor
Sweep her away,
wires and the clay

There are always more dolls
to be bought and sold.

There is a chill
like ice
that courses through my veins;
It begs a response from me --
why?
why don’t you say it?
Admit you are dead.

And the rivers of tears never come
though I feel the swollen dams holding them give way
They ran dry long ago;
the tension, the ache
is but a phantom pain,
a memory of something
long cut off from my soul
Sweet desperation sings me
a tune;
it whispers in my ear
and echoes the tired violin
I feel guilty to admit
I play.

Tonight, there is death here;
it claws at my skin,
ascends my thighs,
caresses my body
and trails kisses along my
pale cheeks.
It swarms and invades,
my soul the nectar in its
macabre hive
and I feel nothing,
am nothing
anymore.

Am I alive?
I feel a pulse, a pitter patter
playing upon my wrist.
Yet there is no warmth
My heart, it pounds out
the death march,
yet it feels no love,
no pain,
no shame,
only coldness.
Is this life, or an illusion?
I test the waters of this dreamworld
and find them shallow,
murky,
stained with the blood of
those who tread them before
I know my essence
lies within,
but where?
Where is she now,
when I need her
tangibility to validate
my existence?

I must see if I am
a shell
or woman,
an original
or pathetic imitation,
no better than a dollar store
bottle of perfume;
and I am liked about as much
as that artificial scent
Am I a fraud,
a phony,
a clever role in
life’s play?
I must know;
who am I?
What am I?
If I cannot feel,
do I live?
Or do I merely engage in the motions?

(Wind the doll up and watch
her dance
She poses and talks
when you pull her string
She laughs on cue, a
marvel of technology)

I slit the cord
to my voice box, and dig within,
watching the rage
diffuse across
my pretty dolly flesh.
I am real, I am no toy
though you use me that way
I must be more
than paint and clay
I am blood and fire
I am pain and desire
And this,
this silver kiss,
this cold and hot
scarlet paradox of a baptism
cannot be taken from me.

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