I’m so good at adopting people’s pain and treat it as my own new born. So good at fitting in others’ shoes, that I can walk a mile against their enemies. Standing tall in the light of my arrogance, I chase the ghosts from their past of horror. My speech of wisdom dries the tears falling from their red eyes and this witty joke I serve at the very end of my lecture even brings the smile back on their faces. Glory to the cheerleader!
But then I see you break down like a sad porcelain doll. You just hit the edge of the height and fall.
My princess… I don’t have the power to fix you. I don’t have the heart to see you in pieces.
Once again, I step aside and watch him putting things back together.
My beautiful princess… Your eyes seem so scratched! Your knees seem so weakly attached – how would you stand back up on your own two feet? What should I do? Should I scream at his face for turning you into a rag…Should I thank him, since he’s still the only one who can fix you wrong?
And it’s not so bad, since you are still my lovely princess, my fine doll of grace. And I’ve learned some time ago, that my eyes only serve my blindness given by birth, so I simply erase the obvious cracks.
How about you, darling? How about you? Yet the winds of changes blow straight through those invisible crevices and freeze you from the inside. Even the lightest seasonal rain fills you up like a cup trying to hold a sea and cold waters spill out of your inner capacity.
He promises to buy an umbrella…better yet, a doll house for Barbie and Ken! He’d buy a plastic car and wish for plastic kids, as pretty as promised on the plastic cover of them consumer boxes. I admire Mr.Ken, he fucking believes he Can!
But you are not some blonde bitch destined to live in Disneyland where KEN-dies and fun never end…of course, paid!
You are my gorgeous princess of rare porcelain. You are one precious doll of vintage glam – reminding them ladies why family and moral come first. Beautiful as a real girl, fragile as a glass statue, you are the most of a collection… and he knows that too…
And by nature you are not made to be played with. You are not created for some games!
Should I scream at his face for letting you down so many times or should I step aside and watch him redrawing you lips in color?
I wish I could fix you, but I can’t …
