Like Plastic Dolls.


I want to be plastic like the dolls that I always loved.
Not an action figure, just a figure.
To ogle, to be.

That was the life I wanted.
Idolized and adored.
Emotionless sell outs.

When I look in the mirror I want to see shapes.
Jagged, protruding shapes.
So damaging to everything.

Damaging to myself and to those around me.
I would be a lethal weapon.
They would cringe in my presence.

I would ask for help, but I do not need it.
There is no sense, I am happy.
That is all that matters.

I was strong against the enemy.
Everything inside me that built up.
Giving me everything I wanted on the outside.

Every day was worth it,
I just thought I would be apart of the gallery.
To see the before and after.

Like plastic I would be built up.
To be held dear and loved.
Although, like all other things I would shrivel in the heat.

In needs and desires, I would cave outwardly.
Holding inside the weapon:
every day I spent inside.

To my dismay, I am knocked down within days.
In my head I become more sick.
The lies and distortions coat everything.

Back into the rut, I see the silver lining.
I would be the doll I always loved and adored.
Even if it was only to me, the bones would be beautiful.