Plush

Honestly not sure if this poem will make sense to other people

Plush

The lilac plush entices me
into its downy decay.
My fingers—small, obedient—
curl tight around her rope.

A cloudy bathrobe
learns the shape of an infant neck.
Squeeze and squeeze,
bright as breakfast oranges split wide.

I am blind.
Speckled soldiers kiss my iris,
marching to a technicolor drum.

The door croaks—
wooden, hot, accusing.
Mother comes. She does.
She glides spectrally.

Knobby knees burn
into gray carpet confessionals.
Cigarette, daisy white
Blooming on my door.

I clutch the lilac anchor,
practice exile—
a life on cherub clouds
where soldiers can't reach.

If I were a princess,
I'd weep for amethyst
instead of lilac.

The robe gulps my salt-wet tears.
Somewhere,
the boy who ruined me
eats his ice cream.