I live in a dollhouse
Where the Barbie's are five feet tall
And their pretty pink dresses
Resemble summer's fall.

And their silken silhouettes at night
Sound like sad rustles
And their breathing is so very light
Like simple sad nuzzles.

Sometimes it will rain out there
And fill my little heart with fear
And inside rushing I will see
That I cannot run anywhere.

When it rains so hard out there
I think inside there must be calm
But rain is etched into the soul
Of every doll that walks around.

Their movements are simply plastic
And their expressions are so sad
That with every falling raindrop
We must wonder what they had.

And so they will tell you if you ask them,
Like they do to mirrors they see.
Pretty reflections in the glass,
And often, they tell me.

Every single doll in here
Will occasionally pull me near
And tell me secrets old
Of stories that were never told.

And somewhere in the dark of eyes
And in the middle of muddled fear,
Sitting with those dolls so dear,
I find myself just "not here."

Because what then is the difference
If my skin should have no pallor,
And my legs not take me anywhere
That should truly matter?

And what if all that was real to me
Lay in smoky mirrors
That reflected images, fake and dead,
With some vestige of haunting death?

Yes, I live in a dollhouse,
Surrounded by ladies in pink
With their hair done up all pretty
And with haunting songs to sing
Of the long-forgotten recent past
And history so near
That these pretty dollies here
Can never live for fear
That their past should be dead and gone.
They live in books and rust.
But I have room for another doll;
Come sit and gather dust.