Being a Doll

Her feet stood on the edge of the sea.

Her breathing, suppressed, taking her back.

Her misery felt more powerful and devastating

Than nature itself. She looked at the crashing waves

And saw herself as destroyed, smashed against the cold rocks.

She would call it love, thinking of you, as she is standing there.


She wonders what drives her to these edges and depths.

She always forgets her own motive for going there.

She forces her own mind into a chamber with locks.

She steps into the water for release, bottled-up, in despair.

She can’t let go, you’re a minimalist of human affection.

She gazes upon the tumultuous waterworks and knows you cannot be trusted.


“Woman with Red Hair” by József Rippl-Rónai (1861-1927)

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