My Poetry: Me, The Doll You Forgot by Isabelle Hernandez

I think I’ll start posting some of my poetry and short fiction here once in a while, when I’m kinda happy with the final product.

Me, The Doll You Forgot

I let rivers carry your voice down its bank
And my fingers are empty like my bed
And the stabbing, burning, coal-filled heat
Under the skin of my breast
I’ve sewed my lips so that no one knows
I see you and we ask for statistical reports
And forget the days of thighs pressed against thighs
When the scruff of your beard indented my skin
And I learn to cook and dive from the sky
I reinvent myself and dye my hair light brown
I pretend that years fell off a cliff
Like girls in their thirties and men who are married
And I say we are just friends, just colleagues
That share job jokes and pass notes
I see you with her, the bearer of the children
And her skin is lighter and her hair is brighter
And her waist is slimmer and her smile is wider
And I am a plastic Walmart imitation
That you play with when the real thing is gone
It is lies that I see in your blue eyes
In your lashes so blonde they blend with the freckling of your skin
But I still desire the curve of your back
Because I was born a fool, a whorish queen
And when my period doesn’t come
You’ll reach your hand between my legs
Your voice is thick in the rain
Then tell me to empty myself out
Because it’s better this way

 

Isabelle Hernandez

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