Author: Chelsea Yates
I am but a doll screaming in dusk’s due
Compliant, wrists rubbed raw, weeping internally.
Porcelain skin, glassy eyes, arms sore from holding
Bare except for soul, smiling teeth break.
I am but a doll, set high upon shelf
Stared and beheld, then discarded as time permits.
Silent in harsh light of day, muted, voice stilled
Doll, but a prize, a toy, erased from history.
Nothing.