I’m a porcelain doll,
all cracked up.
I’m a rag doll,
the stitches loosening
from too many washings.
I’m a paper doll,
all torn up.
I’m an Amish doll,
my face sometimes blank
when someone says two words
that sound like one.
I’m a Barbie doll,
all glammed up,
carrying two heavy weights.
I’m broken,
in need of repair.
Who can fix me,
but the one who collects dolls
and puts them in his dollhouse—
so pretty to look at,
for no one else to touch but him?

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