one-of-a-kind doll, not for sale

a poem about dysmorphia and dysphoria alike.

if i could fix myself
with scissors and needles and thread--
i think i’d start with my face,
and cut it right off my head

i’d snip and trim and change it
till i was handsome all around
and i’d sew it right back on there
i’d be the talk of the town--

and then i’d move on down,
right on to my chest,
and i’d make some changes there --
really, who needs breasts?

i’d smooth my skin, i’d dye my hair
till i was perfect as can be
i’d make myself so wonderful,
and everyone would look at me!

if i could, i’d be less fluffy
i’d go and unzip my skin
and pull out all the stuffing
till i’m nice and sleek and thin

and i’d finish my new look
and look back into the mirror
and i’d see myself, so pretty
and exactly what i feared

i didn’t do it right, i’d say--
i’d have to try again
i’d snip and trim and change myself
and wash the sorrows down the drain

but no matter what i do
there’s something wrong with me
i’ll snip and trim and cut and cry
but i’ll never turn out pretty