Baby Doll Eyes

She wakes up appalled by the face staring back at her
The face on the other side of the sterilized glass, the windexed mirror

She reaches into her bag of illusions and tricks
And with tools in hand, carefully starts to pick
The transplant begins:

She paints on her smile 10 inches wide,
And arranges glitter just above her eyes,
So no one will know what she feels inside
Covers up every blemish from the past,
And wonders silently to herself how long it will last

Then with each hair pinned perfectly into place, she heads out into her make make-believe world, her make-believe place
Every “Hello!” and friendly wave held together with elmers-glue-paste

Arriving at school, she falls in the production line with the rest of the cloned figures
A want-to-be Barbie Doll in a cracked case
She looks down, loathing her auburn hair
The way it clashes with the others freshly bleached locks makes everyone stare

She wishes to look less like Teresa and more like Skipper
Maybe not Skipper…
“You know, all you NEED is a little bit more fiber-glass around that waist and those boobs would much bigger…you could take some from your thighs…and…”
Her perfectly tanned asaultent trails off, interrupted by the bell

First period:
Art class,
Where her true darkness and passion emerge
With each movement of her brush, her real self oozes out
Thick and undeniable like molasses
Flings of red paint on a canvas skin,
Crimson that stains her porcelain frame

A bystander observes this crack in her mask and smothers a laugh
The hand on the clock reads half-past
A hand forcing the future to the past

Hand on the crack, the girl races to the bathroom
Time to play touch-up
Hiding in a stall,
She pulls out her compact of happiness and glee
And loads it on thick for the world to see

Then she looks down at her hands,
Reminded of how much she hates them:
Writing, painting, creating, FEELING

FEELING

Always moving to and fro
Always screaming to be heard
She stuffs them in her pockets,
Burns the papers, rips up the art
But those hands couldn’t be stopped

Couldn’t be stopped

Especially one night when she was all alone
Alone in her perfectly pink, perfectly damaged home

Couldn’t be stopped

All to late, her producers arrived home and looked upon the scene that had played out
Not appearing the least bit surprised, “What a Hideous Mess,” were the only words this motherly organism could surmise
Her cheerful mask hid the frown that lay on the other side
And she forced the tears to abide…

For the girl lay on the floor
Lines of red all around,
Only this time the skin wasn’t canvas
It was REAL,
Her skin,
NOT PLASTIC

The most beautiful art work she’d ever done

But they covered her masterpiece with an area rug of the season
Covered up all the meaning,
A rug the color of a doll’s eyes;
The color through which baby dolls see their fragile glass world
“What a beautiful shade,” visitors would say with a sigh

And they all walked on that carpet every time they came by
Walked on it,
Walked on it , not even noticing the lump in the middle…
In the middle, the girl fusing with the floor…wasting away under a dusty, mouth ball ridden piece of cloth…
But no one noticed: After all it was the color of baby doll eyes.