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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;
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.
Written by Betty
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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Whitewand6 braggman dearalexandra
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