The Dollhouse is Brehing Again
The shutters clack when the wind’s not real,
The dollhouse hums with things that feel.
Tiny furniture, all in place,
But something’s moving in the fireplace.
The wallpaper peels like it’s learned to breathe,
And something beneath the floorboards seethes.
The dolls don’t sit—they stand and wait,
With painted hands and twisted fe.
The kitchen’s set for tea and dread,
And the rocking horse shakes like it knows you’re dead.
Every drawer has teeth inside,
And the dollhouse walls have eyes that slide.
The dollhouse is brehing again—
With tiny lungs and porcelain skin.
Don’t knock twice or try to pretend—
Once you go in, you stay 'til the end.
Mama Doll hums in lullaby croaks,
Stirring soup made from shredded jokes.
Papa Doll stands with a splintered grin,
Saying, “Let’s see what the new one brings in.”
The tic door swings back and wide,
With all the lost dolls locked inside.
They whisper titles and scrch the beams—
You’ll hear them too, inside your dreams.
The dollhouse is brehing again—
And it knows where you’ve been.
It stitched your name on the welcome m,
So come on in. And leave like th.