That Doll
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That doll won’t come to life.
You know it, and I know it. It is a doll – Plastic shaped into A face, and hands, with eyes that Cannot see. The hair is made in a Machine. It does not know who you are, Or if you care to rip it apart, Cut it up, or Throw it into the bin. That doll is not alive. It has no soul. But how afraid I am of that doll! That ten-inch-tall plastic painted In mauve, gaudy yellow hair, and a Discolored shoe! It stares at me with those eyes, Even when there’s no light, Even when I have wrapped it up in Cloth. Do not ask me how. I know it sees my soul. I was alone that night. No one knows How I sinned. How I finally got my way, got square. It just happened. There’s no trace. But that doll was there. I did not see at first, then I knew. It saw inside my soul. Deep into the darkness in the Shadowed room, and it Mocks me now with those Painted eyes. I cannot throw it away, cut it, Twist it into a shapeless piece Or smash it under my feet I know that it will see Even when it’s not there With eyes that always follow That always get even, No matter what you do. |
FARIEL SHAFEE
has degrees in science, but enjoys writing and art. She has published in decomP, Blaze Vox and various Black Ink Fiction Anthologies among others. Her art portfolio can be seen on http://fshafee.wixsite.com/farielsart |