The porcalin Doll

A Poem by Divieanna

What is within me.

There is a reflection in the mirror. But not of me. Not of the road I am upon. The happieness that is and will ever be does not speak to me. The calls you pay, the letters you write are dust in the road and can be washed away by the sparrows own tears. My lonelyness is not yours. You sit there with you're empty voice, and you're tired eyes. You look away from my pain. You dont see me. You see the reflection in that lone mirror. On the other side I am traped. Behind a smile made of porcaline glass. So easy to brake with a gentle push on the smoth edge of my insanity. This is I. My world upon the lips and which ride the whispers of hush lips. Only the ghostly embers know my secrets. They can decode the temptations of my shuttering heart. To have you here, and to be torn away. To look at you but not hold you. Could I ever detach myself from these hidden chains around my neck. How did this beautiful flower wilt into rugged thorns. Ripping and pulling at me with rage. And yet if I ask you, if I be you, you would look away. You would block me out. You would remember the child's laughter. I mask my pain from you're unwanting eyes. From the bitter sting of my poisoned veins. It is not death upon my lips only trueth. And you bare not to hear it. You coware behind close doors and lash out against me with a flame you dull for my eyes in attempted to seem content in my eyes. You denie my happieness. Though I slave through every day of hard toil and bare this smile I carved into my dieing face. It is frozen. It is cold. It is not me. The me inside this posalin doll, this ageing flash that you have fancied into your perfection is not me. I am me. And what you see is you. What I fashen myself to be for your own sake and not to share my heart ach with you is my torture. I sit here in silence like this little spinning doll. I am not a wife. I am not a woman. I am glass. And I am cold until you come to me again.