The Dolls Are Broken

The clouds sit along my body, abandoned and cold. A spectral being, a dead man,

a story untold. Something that throbs with the pain and the

break, something that's rotting, for heaven's sake. There are no

pretty dolls, no fairy dust here. No comforting words to drive away

fear. Just a window, an old wall, a solitary soul.

A pair of torn stockings that never made whole. No

final moon oath, no goblins at play. Just forced tired caresses

that wore me away. The taste of oleander, so bitter