Porcelain Doll

Porcelain Doll

I feel like I’m made of porcelain

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And not just in the way that my surface is thin, fragile and far too pale

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Nor the way that I am solid to the touch of your hand,

because my skin clings to my bones and won’t let go

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It should be a nice thing to refer to myself as something so pretty,

like a fine china plate or a porcelain doll

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But never until now did I pity the dolls on my shelves for having hollow limbs

and voids in their chests

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I have learned to empathise with that empty space where their blood should be pumping, substituted by stuffing to maintain their shape

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Where I used to feel my heart beating far too intensely, now I can barely feel it at all

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My stuffing feels how white noise sounds

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Without the energy to move anything but my cold fingertips,

maybe it would make sense to prop me up on a shelf beside those like me

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When I finally lose the energy to move my lips,

perhaps you can paint something pretty on my eyelids whilst they’re glued shut,

tie on a ribbon,

and nobody will be able to tell the difference