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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Fantasy · #1798382
Are they dolls or...?
Clad in the most delicate of antique Turkish muslin
A feathered hat upon perfect Shirley Temple curls
I am watching you behind glassy ocean eyes.

At every display you pause to gaze at my still sisters.
Occasionally you grunt if their appearance pleases you and your eyes linger longer
Traveling slowly upwards and down their slender bodies.
You journey onward, your steps reverberating through our tiny shop
Your huge belly jiggling and your breathing labored.

Your eyes meet mine
Eyes crusted with sleep and God knows what.
They begin to bulge and pulsate and your breathing increases evermore.
You lick your lips.
My porcelain heart is welling in fear and disgust.

Madame approaches you, keeping her distance.
“Monsieur, would you like to see Cecile?”
You nod fiercely, flakes of dandruff dancing softly to the floor.
Madame frowns slightly, unlocking my case.

Your hands wrap around my tiny waist and pull me toward you
Tearing my slip slightly.
You stroke my cheeks.
Your hands are greasy and my face shimmers.
Your breath fogs up my eyes with McDonald’s stench.

Madame smiles.
An exchange is made.
I try to catch Madame’s eyes.
She refuses to look at me.

My hopes and dreams are slowly being digested
Minute by minute within your humongous belly.
I hope you know that even though I smile always
Every time I look at you with these big blue eyes
I am wishing for your demise.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1798382