It's best not to ask me
what I’ve done.
You're not gonna like the answer.
I can recite it to you
frontward
backward
up and down
the mistakes I've made.
But even closer to my heart:
(searing it on burning coals)
are the things done to me.
Reminding me I am
but an object.
Always the toy,
never the prize.

Being a plaything for so long
you think I would have learned
how to act like one:
Placid eyes glazed over,
porcelain skin, shiny and smooth.
A smile permanently plastered,
immutable to the seasons,
unscathed by every wreck.
An unwavering, plastic smile..
Yet smiles run away from my face
the moment I feel them begin to creep.
Bubbling laughter boils to anger-
not ladylike at all.
Then again I am no lady.
Just your doll.
Here for every superior males' disposal.