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.