the shelf
Scarlet strings –
pulled between sewn sockets
and cotton-mouth.
Stuffing lungs and throat –
hurts to talk.
Yet, brittle teeth lie inside.
Do I capture your grubby eyes -
make twitching hands happy?
Your stomach growls but mine
stays empty.
Hand to mottled hand,
I swing, from your built-arms
by bulky-heavy fingers.
Laid in soft lime-grass
alleys of dark.
Shaken, empty, of thought.
Then you hang me over a fire.
Thick wax threads jump –
burn in my head.
Scalping my confidence,
turning away from friends.
Reducing to nothing.
Our ties –
tangled loosening threads.
Have my looks,
become stares,
monotonous,
Curls and lashes
Picked out
Behind scratched-feeling iris’.
Am I messy?
Distorted amongst pink-plastic mirrors,
I do not recognise myself.
Lips full, an aged rose.
Porcelain skin cracked, milky
from dust, dirt, your woes.
Pretty dresses laced with mud,
dampened -
sullied.
Satisfactory doll,
Till wild-imagination dulls.
Now I sit
loose-legged crossed low on crooked-shelf,
knees-bruised yellowing-purple.
Dainty arms detached,
mind shattered, eyes-black
having lived pretty.
Cheeks still blushed,
From other’s painted words.
Still, full am I of rotten teeth,
Once pearly white
once pretty,
once
- pretty.