Doll.

I've found myself washed up on the shores of my dreams.
My seams undone, in a sea of loose threads and untied ribbons.
Sharp nails pressing inward, begging to stay alive as my stuffing escapes.
Watching as my body falls apart in my hands.
Crying no tears, nothing left.
Hoping for someone to rescue me.
Patch me back up, like new again.
But I'm holding scissors..
and snipping each perfectly aligned stitch,
and with each one sliced, more of me is poured onto the ground.
I am not the girl of your dreams.
I am not the birth of a new idea.

I am the death of a child.
I am the death of sanity.
I am the death of a soul.
I am the death of hope.
I am the death of your dreams.
I am the death of your smile.
I am the death of your beauty.

And I am dead. Laying as empty skin in your bed.
Cotton scattered around.