My past dwells in the dollhouse –
a narrow three-story abode squatting in the alleyway
between a mass grave of half-naked plastic girls
and the sturdy wood of my closet door. Fifteen years ago,
they called it the Dreamhouse. Now the shutters are broken,
the stickers peeling, the floors covered
in a mystical layer of thick gray dust. But if I press
the tiny switch hidden under the faded crib sheets, I can
still hear the tinkling melody that once soothed
stillborn bug-eyed doll babies that lie frozen
still here in their eternal youth. When I was young
I thought I could subvert time too. But this closet is too small
to shelter me now. Or perhaps my body is just too big,
carrying the weight of womanhood upon the bones of a girl
in sixth grade, the last days before first blood
before the straight roads on her map learned to curve
and tore the fabric of her candy-stripe world. Crushed and forgotten
at the bottom of a toy chest lies
Wedding Barbie and Ken, still side by side
and destined for eternity as they were sold
in a boxed set. I used to think this was true love –
plastic bodies beautiful and motionless, unburdened
by the hunger that crept into my games of dress-up. Even now
I still long to play pretend. I can be anything
if only I dream it. I could learn to care
for a man, the way I learned
the quadratic equation and parallel parking
they don’t come
naturally but who am I
to question
what is natural?
I’m twenty and I’ve seen
too many strange things. I long to take refuge
within these bubblegum-pink walls where everything is possible
and nothing is uncertain. It’s all manufactured, of course
but reality hurts. Just give me five
more minutes of girlhood before
I must be grown again.
