The Collector

I just wrote this poem because I was mad at something, but I can't spill the tea. I was inspired by the spooky season, tik tok and of course, my aching heart...

Sometimes I am sitting on my bed
late hours of the night,
not a sound to be heard

My heart is pumping
and with every pump I can feel it sinking step by step,
descending into a cave that leads to the earth's nucleus.
I get up and search my dusty shelves
Here they are
Still glistening under the moonlight
My loving dolls
Some are puppets with strings
I used to love those strings
How they tangled me and put me to sleep
Now I cut them and put them on my harp
I use them to make eerie melodies
Like a siren

I put the dolls in front of my mirror
Look how silly you look
Inanimate, frozen
While I'm still moving every muscle of my body

One day you told me something about my hair
Now I shave your heads
Or put wigs on them
I almost killed myself once
After something you said

But now you're all my voodoo dolls
I write your stories with different endings.
I am no Stephen King but I can give it a try

I don't want you to think bad of me
I'm just paying my duty
To a child starving for love
Striking matches on a Christmas night
Before she passes out from the cold.

Reviews

[Relic]

I can see the mood of the speaker reflected on the dolls. The sensitivity leaks out when hearing something perceived as negative. The last stanza puts it all into perspective.

Nice writing.

[Ern M. Yoshimoto]

it's a complicated poem that traverses many emotions. it reminds me how emotions are always connected to each other: hate-love; hurt-anger; indifference and being overloaded, etc. the dolls similarly change in their conception beginning as childish play things, then slowly morphing into ominous voodoo dolls by the end. the final lines are very evocative. i get a strong feeling there is something brooding beneath the surface.