Marie Lou.

I'm a doll. All smothered in knitted blue and yellow strings; hair and body. Inside is all metal and electricity. Outside pretty and simple with insides tangled and ugly. But you don't need to know that. You're only supposed to hold me, do my hair and talk to me to stop yourself from going insane. To you, I'm the closest thing to another human. The walls don't have eyes, noses or mouths; they can't reply to you. I can; with the press of a button. The walls will make you sound unstable; I will only make you sound pitiful.

I don't know your name. In fact, I don't know many things. I just know this room, your hands, your face and your voice. I know you're a woman, not a girl. Your face is tired; your smile is tired as well, but it's genuine. You're not going to throw me away because I'm a part of your world. I don't know why you're not throwing me out, just so you won't actually end up being insane? I don't know what that means either. I just call you mommy, recite some redundant lines and sit motionless and limp around all day.

Sometimes I'd see you getting all flustered with water in your eyes, hugging me so close that your ribs cage almost swallows me whole. I can't figure out what's wrong with you every time you do that. If you were broken, maybe a new battery or a trip to a mechanic would fix you, but you're not like me. So I don't understand.
You'd have water flooding from your eyes at times then apologize to me for being 'emotional'. Needless to say, I don't know what that is. I don't know why you stretch your lips so wide and flash your teeth, I don't know why you drip water from your eyes and I don't know why you keep talking to me while doing those things and stroking my yellow-string hair?
Are you lonely? Are you broken? I want to ask you those things, but all I can muster up is 'mommy' and those stupid redundant lines.

You always say you love me, but the first time you took me home you said that you didn't want to name me; just so you won't get attached to me that much. Does not throwing me out means that we're already attached? Does keeping a needless wire hooked indicate that you want it, even though it's useless and takes up space and more power?

Yesterday you called me 'Marie Lou' and kept wiping at your face. Does that mean we're 'attached' ? Why does naming me mean we're attached? But all I can say is mommy and more cliché redundant stupid lines, and you can never understand what I want to know. You're not like me. I know that because I'm only supposed to say certain lines, you can say whatever you want. You're not made to be something that does one thing all day. You do whatever you want. You're a stringless puppet.

Like now: you're holding up a picture frame that has the face of another woman-no, a girl. A girl with hair made out of gold and skin dipped in alabaster. She was a translucent girl, just like you with your blue-green veins that I've seen so many times, decorating your arms like emerald ferns. The girl is dressed in blue; dark blue like what I'm wearing. Her eyes were just like mine: a subtle caramel-honey. I only know all of this because I saw myself the other day; it was when you were holding me up against your chest in front of a mirror. You were babbling words over my head, and I could feel the thing in your ribcage beat against my back so rapidly. Again there was water pouring from your eyes. I could hear you saying you 'love' me over and over again and that you miss me. You miss Marie Lou.

I do not understand any of your words. I do not even understand my own, 'mommy'. I'm just a doll; made for little girls with smiles and overactive imagination. You're not any of that; you keep rubbing your eyes until they're almost blood-red because of the water that doesn't stop. You stretch your lips and your face muscles clench up and twist, but that's not a smile. I've seen smiles before, pointless as they are.
Maybe it's because you're a woman. Maybe women have broken parts and girls don't. That's why they don't smile.

But back to you. You're staring at that picture frame at the girl (who must be one. She has a smile). You're tapping the glass now and murmuring my name: Marie Lou Marie Lou Marie Lou. But I'm right here.

You've come to hold me again, "Marie Lou Marie Lou Marie Lou, you don't know how much I missed you. I love you, Marie Lou." Keep talking, I don't want to know what you mean anymore. You're probably really crazy. That's what the woman who gave me to you said. You say all these things that don't make sense to me. With all your love, your I miss yous, your Marie Lous.

What does your love mean? You said that it came from the bottom of your heart; but there's only blood there. I saw it on the TV; they cut a man's chest open, cracked it up and showed his heart. It was deep crimson and still; no sign of anything else. Then what is your love? Where is it? In your chest, your head or your doings? It's only a word that you keep saying: it's only a word for me.

Yet, you keep tapping the glass everyday; you keep letting your eyes burst with oceans of water; you keep holding me so tight that I'm clinging to your spine; and you keep saying 'Marie Lou Marie Lou, I love you'.

"Poor poor Marie Lou. Still plunging her claws to that little doll. Lonely lonely Marie Lou." The old women say when they clean the room. I'm lonely? "Child's not right in her head; talkin' 'bout herself that way; she loved herself far too much. Made her crazy." And they all touch the picture when they say that. They sigh, nod and press their lips then keep on cleaning.

Why am I not right in the head? I am Marie Lou. That's what you said. You love me, Marie Lou, don't you? Even if I don't know what you mean, even if you're crazy, you love me?

"Marie Lou Marie Lou, I love you." You say that day and night, asleep and awake, non-smiling and tired. I don't need to know what you mean, but do you love me? Do you love me, Marie Lou? But all I can say is, and all you can hear is:

Mommy.