Unscathed

This doll that you love
is a silent child,
an empty mute,
faded and stale.
She is clay-cold, chalk-pale,
so rigid, she could
SNAP.

White pools of painted tears,
like moonslices,
have dropped from the dark sky
and rock at the brim
as she holds back the spill
and the fear.
The light is out
behind the vacant gaze
of those baby blues.

Her brows
are sparsely-feathered fledglings.
Broken.
Lame.
But inside her smooth, flat chest,
Mother Bird manically flaps.
Trapped.

Her unblemished porcelain
was fingertipped smooth
to a blush,
and lips brushed
to invite apricot kisses.

Unscathed

Her chin is dipped
in deference.

Scratch her
and she will not bleed.
She is unflinching
to the pinch of perversion.
Her screams are stifled
by blocked apertures.
She understands death.

She is no slack-mouthed whore,
cushioned and pliant.
Compliant
as you pose her stiff limbs
and seize a lifeless embrace.

Just look at her face.
She is a sad mannequin.
Touched up.
Stripped.
So much missing.