They sat her on the shelf where secrets sleep,
wrapped in lace, too fragile to weep.
Her eyes don’t blink, but they never miss,
every lie you told sealed with a kiss.
Her lips are stitched with silver thread,
each loop a name for the things you fled.
She doesn’t cry–but she collects the sound,
of every silence you buried underground.
Her arms are cracked from where you held too tight,
but she still reaches out in the dead of night.
And though her smile never moves, never fades,
she dreams in screams and shattered braids.
Porcelain teeth and lace regret,
she never forgets, she never forgets.
Left in the dust with your careful neglect,
she learned how to love with a broken neck.
She’s got a drawer full of missing parts,
a key for your guilt and a lock on your heart.
You thought she was still, that she couldn’t feel–
but dolls know truths we’re forced to conceal.
She waited long, she waited still,
then whispered names that gave you chills.
And when you sleep, she stands again–
with ribbon wrists and phantom grin.