Dollhouse of Bones
The attic creaks like it’s got secrets it’s dying to sell.
Her dolls sit silent in broken poses, stiff in their shell.
Porcelain mouths cracked wide from years of screaming still.
Her name was Clara, vanished in lace and bloodstained white.
Daddy swore she fled. Mama just drank through the night.
But the dolls kept multiplying, each with her eyes and bite.
They move when no one’s watching, hands that twitch on thread.
A ballerina missing feet, a bride with a nail through her head.
One’s got your picture tucked inside where her heart bled.
Welcome to the dollhouse of bones,
where sins get stitched and silence moans.
You check in with your name, leave with a scream,
and get sewn into somebody else’s dream.
The wind hums lullabies through throats that never healed,
and every toe-tap on that floor’s another grave unsealed.
Careful where you look–some truths don’t want to be revealed.
They dress you pretty. They paint your lips
and twist your soul in their marionette grip.
You were a visitor. Now you’re decor–smile wide for the crypt.