Baby Doll

I thought about what it would be like to be a baby doll. Not a baby, but a babydoll.

I have never felt pretty. Even when someone tells me that I am. It's been a long time since I was happy with myself. And I hurt the outside all the time. I damage it. But to be someone else's doll. Someone's pretty baby doll. Dressed up and beautiful. Porcelain precious in bows, ruffles, my fake cakey white and smooth.

I want to be your pretty girl. I want you to wash me and dress me, to pull my hair into tight ringlets, paint my face and rouge my cheeks. I want you to tighten my bows and buckle my shoes.

I want to have it all done to me. I want to sit inanimate, cold, unfeeling. I want to make you happy with your beautiful babydoll. I want to be all shell, hollow inside. I want to be expensive and precious, delicate. I want you to lock me away, tuck me away.



And then in the darkness of the night, I want you to take me out and break me. I want you to smear my painted face, tear my pretty dress, pull my perfect hair. I want you to make me cry when your dangerous sticky fingers find my porcelain slit; I want you to taint my fading, detatched pout with all your dark thoughts, your evil deeds.

I want to be those limbs, that defenseless stretch of skin in a pretty pink wrapper. I want you to rip into me and take, take, take. I want you to take advantage of your vunerable little doll -- bend me, force me. I want your contorted smile. I want your devious evil grin. I want you to ruin your pretty babydoll.