The Patchwork

Collecting dolls

a body count

besides myself, the scissors

seem to work best on tender flesh

I should know.

we’re lined up, picturesque

I see my brothers and sisters lean

cold against the wall

bare white room, and God

you’re hurting me

watches us with angry

tears in her eyes, making tears

in each of us. she

likes to pick and choose

you’re hurting yourself

she even does it to herself

a nose, here, there, an ear

the patchwork

is simply monstrous

am I beautiful?

and in the end

we’re all still broken.