Utopia Devised Itself In Little Rigors

In memories that glow in the dark. Frail fences negotiate the margin between what is gone and what's been lost. Truth pricks us numb. A swarm of hungry mosquitoes consume us and we feel nothing. No pain. Or loss. Of any kind. Except the broken face of the doll on the floor. Her clothes not fitting. Her hair not kempt. Her plastic eyelids stuck. Like a cold sore clinging to a hungry lips.

Love and suicide are not that different.

They both want to hear the doll cry again. To find the voids in all these yards of flesh. And stop them from reaching the source.

In every mold. In every squandered smile. The bed it yawns of such plastic skin. Stretched and taut and willing to snap. Undress the doll and show her its holes. Shame like a lion's roar shakes her bedroom. Alone with imaginary jackals the lines draw themselves across her skin. In lies of happiness. In habits of devotion.

In hours.

In years.

In seconds.

The cracks in the doll remove over her clothes.