I am a doll.

Not quite a barbie,

But manufactured to perfection

Hair must be natural

And clothes must be modest

But boys don’t like modest

So I own two closets.

One closet, with schools on sweatshirts

And modest leggings to cover the scars

Scars that they caused from modeling me

To perfection.

The itchy sweaters grandma bought

Or the cardigans brought as gifts from other countries

The bows and barrettes I’ve had since I was four.

Covered and clothed like my ideas

My thoughts and opinions

Just so i can be their doll

But not a barbie, because I’m not blonde.

My other closet, is filled with 

Fast fashion that barely covers me

My stomach is constantly exposed

But boys like it I guess.

Skirts that they would call “easy access”

And tops they can see through.

Half of that closet is empty anyway.

It’s been thrown across rooms 

While I sit and do what I’m told

No high heels.

Men are too insecure when I’m taller than them.

I stand with too much power. How can they use me

If I have more power?

How can they strip away innocence 

like they do my closet

They can’t. Their egos won’t allow it.

They treat me like a doll. 

One they stare at.

Like it was made just for them.

A doll that they can move in anyway they like

But there’s no need to worry

I may be a doll

But I’m not a barbie.

Cause I’m not blonde.