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Itís like trying to jack-off a Ken doll,
life that is, since you
cast me off like a
used condom;
limp,
filled with you,
and useless for
any other purpose.

No matter how I stroke it,
murmur to it,
rub my cheek against it,
cat-like, and coquettish,
itís just a creepy plastic
impression of the real
thing, and it feels too
small, too harsh, too fake
to fill me the way I want to
be filled.

Iím now the cliche Iíve
mocked my entire life.

See, when I was a little girl
I had a ton of Barbie dolls,
and the car, and the store, and the stuff,
and it filled me with unease on some
obscure level I couldnít understand.
So Iíd chop off their hair,
strip those bitches naked,
and draw on their faces with Sharpies.

I found it just a tad unsettling that
the dolls had no nipples,
but aside from that,
I wondered what they
did when I, the goddess of dolls,
was away.

And now I know.

The real world is a shining fraud
And I sit here, still in myself, †
waiting for you to
come back
to move me.
Betty
Written by Betty
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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