photo credit: Farida Davletshina
I am a dollhouse.
Mulberry wine paneling,
smooth, brown shingles,
crisp, white shutters.
Modest mailbox on my manicured lawn,
White picket fence,
porch swing.
I don’t open from the front…
Try another door.
Ready, set, turn me around.
Do my outsides match my insides?
Spoiled, sour, stale
milk.
Cruddy, crazed, crushed
cookware.
Broken, busted, baby
dolls.
Jagged spider web mouths
hover over a chandelier.
Chipped, checkered floor,
now an ugly grey…
Try another door.
Smelly, soggy, stained
bedding.
Cracked, crooked, coarse
canopy.
Dusty, dingy, dirty
bedposts.
No one
wants to sleep here.
No one
wants to be here.
Try another door.
Dilapidated, damaged, decayed
figurines.
next to a
Slanted, severed, smashed
cradle.
Watery, wilting, wasting
wallpaper
behind
Dense, damned, destroyed
Bookcases.
Try another door.
Empty wooden rocking horse
calls out,
for one last ride.
Who did this to me?
How did I get here?
Compartmentalized,
boxed,
broken,
dark
It’s hot in here.
Please
someone
open a…
Someone…
try…
another…