Poppet

How I felt-a long time ago.

 

Poppet

            I’m a toy that sits on your bedroom shelf, on top of the trinket box you never look at. I’m the doll with the pin-up face and Swedish locks. I wear the blue-bonnet dress you bought for me and the pretty ribbon tied up in my hair. ‘Who the f**k am I, Little-Bo-Peep?’ Unlike everything else on this shelf, I’m not dusty. I’m touched everyday when you brush my hair, held when you kiss my ventriloquist lips before night wears heavy on your eyelids. But you put me up on your shelf again until you are ready to pay attention to me once more.

            I was human once, I was young and beautiful; I would become a doctor, but how bitter dreams turn when night calls. I met you under the fountain by the rock, down the road from the split in the road and to the left. I fell in love, I fell in love with you 21 days and 10 hours later under the old oak trees where we spoke to god and made love in the tumble weeds. I didn’t know you would treat me like a fragile doll with all your gifts, kisses, and promises of wonder. How blind I was to your rage-the rage that would consume me, confine me, and transform me into your poppet. You don’t want to share me, you keep me from my family, you keep me from the world I once cherished so much of. I cease to exist-I am no better than but a doll-a doll on your damned shelf.

            But that’s all about to change you see. “Damn it, don’t you see!” I scream, but he doesn’t hear. I’m going to escape; that’s what I’ll do. The next time he picks me up, a shift ever so slightly to the right can make him loose his grip. I’ll tumble to the floor and make my next move from there. “What a brilliant plan!” I say to the green army man sitting to my left who holds a gun. I wait for darkness to fall, conceal me in shadow, for what seems an eternity, until faint, heavy footfalls are heard down the hall. I lump rises in my throat choking my air supply and making me light headed as he saunters over to me.

            “Goodnight my love, we’ll talk tomorrow,” he says ever so gently while holding me in the palm of his hand. Here goes-just to the right- that’s it! I careen to the ground, with my hair flowing behind me and his hand close behind. I know it will hurt-I know I will die, but I would rather die than spend one more day on his shelf. Goodbye glass prison, goodbye.