She is Lego

To the girls who are made out of Lego.

She’s built up; hand upon hand molds her:

Prodding, kneading, designing a usable silhouette,

That they deem fit.  

Like Lego pieces in a Star Wars set, it’s as if she comes in a box;

Her right breast wrapped in bubble wrap, nestled next to the soul.

The perfect gift under a tree or accompanying a birthday card.

She’s made up and remade time after time.

The hands can’t seem to make up their mind as they

Pass her round and round, making her dizzy.

It’s a reconstruction merry-go-round,

Where she lies out in full glory to be handled and sculpted

By all who want just a little feel.

The merry-go-round spins and spins and she’s

A million different versions of a body and a mind and a soul;

Though, she never knows which version is the right one.

It’s not a gentle process and she’s missing a few bits and bobs.

She can’t remember at what point the heart left, but it’s been gone for a while,

And so is her voice and she thinks her appendix as well.

She is lost; piece by piece and part by part

But searching gets tedious and she figures she’s just as well without them.

Besides, the fingers will fill the holes, though they’re never from the same hand.

Either way, they’re all greedy.

Pawing and snatching so they get their say;

As if she is the only masterpiece they can create.

As if this is their redemption and so they jump on it,

All too eager and all too desperate.

She can see it in their eyes.

And in this way, she and the hands are startlingly alike.

She’s a painting of all the should haves and could haves and the

Would have if only I had thought right!

So they raise themselves above her and mold from a pedestal,

And in this lighting she can see the wind blow through their missing pieces.

She wonders when they’ll fall,

And how long until she does as well.