Pretty Puppet Girl

A poem about a girl who is being manipulated.

Such a pretty girl --
Strawberry hair & pale blue eyes --
Porcelain skin like your mother.
Always such a beautiful little girl,
Even with a gun in your hands.

Going to place it to your head, pretty girl?
Don't do that -- you'll hurt yourself.
Going to pull the trigger, pretty girl?
Don't do that -- it makes such a mess.
You're a big girl -- I shouldn't have to clean up after you.

Such a sweet girl --
Compassionate and caring --
Kind-hearted like your father.
Always such a good little girl,
Even with a pill bottle in your hands.

Going to take them one by one, pretty girl?
Don't do that -- eating them slowly only prolongs the bitter taste.
Going to down them all at once, pretty girl?
Don't do that -- mommy needs her fix in the morning.
You're a smart girl -- you should know better.

Such a talented little girl --
Writer and a singer --
Gifted like you great-grandmother.
Always such a bright little girl,
Even with a razor in your hands.

Going to put the steel to your flesh, pretty girl?
Don't do that -- you'll scar your beautiful porcelain skin.
Going to slash at your wrists until you don't have the energy to scream anymore, pretty girl?
Don't do that -- you'll strain your vocal cords and then I can't hear you sing.

You're a little confused, baby girl.
But you'll get it someday.

Such a pretty rope around your neck,
Little girl,
Such a pretty rope.
It looks good on you.

Now I have to cut you down.
Silly girl -- you tied the noose wrong.
You're lucky it worked at all.
Well, at least I know you won't do it again.
You never did like to disappoint me.
You were such a good puppet --
Even if your strings did get tangled every now and then.
You were such a fun toy --

Such a pretty puppet girl --
You hung yourself with your own strings,
Puppet girl,
You brought this on yourself.
So now I have to bury you,
My pretty puppet girl.

You can be replaced.
You've already been replaced.
You brought this on yourself, puppet girl.

You're writhing in your coffin --
Choking on severed strings --
You're buried beneath the cold, hard ground
Where no one can hear your screams.

Author's Note

One of my teacher's read this poem and flipped out. She sent me to see the counselor and it was a rather hilarious experiance. I wonder what Steven King's teachers said to him about his writing.

Reviews

[Mitchell J.U.]

What disturbing about all this is that you were referenced to speak to a counselor as if writing this was wrong or something. Was great. Thanks for posting your stuff.