a nervous sort of humiliation,
but above a sense of relaxation
found only through my future's might.
for i am not a doll,
i grow and hate and spit.
i jump back and forth from cupboard to shelf,
put on my shoes all by myself.
making mistakes like it's my
i yell and dance, whisper and sob.
frowning more than smiling,
laughing more than trying.
my cheeks aren't painted ruby red,
they are pale and porous instead.
for one is worse than the other,
a better good
by anyone who isn't me.
so take your pictures of the empty head,
then when it's old,
find it under your bed.