China Doll


2am seems like my own witching hour. It is quiet and my mind is not. I have a need that despite my many sources, is not filled. When did I begin my spiral? I do not recall. I was on a search for a feeling, any feeling, other than the lovely numbness my medicine gave me. Though the dual powers inside myself were placated by an endless dosage of pills designed to quell my inner demons, there remained a shred of rebellion. On a logical plane, I am aware the damage my search causes. I am frozen, but for one moment, a brief fiery moment, I feel again. It is over too soon. So like an addict, I chase my high and then crash into nothingness, my bender over.

I seek redemption for my many sins; the greatest sin of all is that I believe this is no sin. I chase… I chase a moment in time in which another’s eyes look into my own blue ones and my search is over. Shattered into shards, the pieces of my heart scattered amongst previous lovers who cast the gift aside, I am broken. Through the palest of skin, ice in my eyes, and a hollow center, I am a china doll. I am posed ever so prettily. Each word rehearsed, each smile practiced, my clothing pre-chosen, I am in my final form when they see me. Wipe away the layers of paint, to the real girl underneath, I am convinced the beauty of my scars will escape their notice. An angry red scar that faded into a thin pink line is my mark of battle. I picture a kiss on my scar, as final acceptance. However, my search go on. In the end, the bruises and scars on my skin will be painted over. A perfect china doll will pose for her lover. Broken pieces will be hidden beneath a icy demeanor that will ensure my protection from further attacks.

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