The Broken Doll

She sits on the wooden shelf

An unwelcome grin etched on to her face

As the people around her

Mill around the house

Go about their day

And pay her no attention.

She waits

Patiently with her stiff limbs

Hoping all day

Today’s the day

When they come home

They’ll pick me up off of the shelf

And play with me.

The hour arrives,

The family trudges in

One

By

One

And they begin to mill around the house

And go about the rest of their day

Without a glance at the shelf

Where the doll sits by herself

Waiting for love.

Non-Conformist

Peacock blue hair

In a stripe down her scalp

To match the puncture wounds

On her face and ears

Adorned with diamond studs.

There are no shackles on her

Ink-stained wrists

Only the permanent artistic expression

Of her choosing.

All of which

Create the prison

She doesn’t know she’s in.

Adult World

Thrust into the adult world

A child

With growing responsibilities.

And so began a torrid love affair

With words

With life

With myself.

Recipe for Disaster

One mistake that could have been prevented

But not easily fixed.

Stir until the bumps begin to smooth out.

Add a dash or glimmer of hope to taste;

Enough that it can still be crushed

But not enough to overpower.

Let sit until it ferments

And spreads

Sinking into the crevices in your brain

Leaving you with nothing

But an aftertaste

Of what could have been.