The Doll

The happiest day of my life
Was when she picked me
Out of the countless other
Little plastic things
Off the shelf
And into tender arms
I was hers.

She fixed my face and fixed my hair
Singing in her angel’s voice, she
Chased away my nightmares
Her magic spells and enchantments,
Couldn’t mould plastic into flesh
But I was safe
Alive for once in her essence.

But dust gathered on my newborn limbs
Lonely up on the highest shelf,
As she forgot to play.

My wooden heart thumped on,
To the tune of her rare songs
Her distant voice breathed life into me
But her desires evolved and
I became a memory,
Slowly fading away.

She bought another and brought it home
Better, prettier, shinier tone
Her voice prepared one last song
As the shelf could hold only one
Only one for her attention,
So she reached for the ragged one
For me,
The mouldy, dusty,
Forgotten soul.

Because she knew,
As she flung me into a dark corner
Discarding me on top of countless other
Victims of her witchcraft,
She knew,
As her eyes focused on another

Nothing could revive a broken doll.