smiling forever [these dusty dolls].

i have fallen past descriptions of places and things, and found a new feeling.

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

job,

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

misunderstood

by anyone who isn't me.

so take your pictures of the empty head,

then when it's old,

find it under your bed.