i had a doll.
her name was ann.
she had a crooked smile,
a flat nose, and wide green eyes.
her hair was plaited into two red braids,
not very neatly.
her dress was my favorite,
polka-dotted pink on white,
and it was so frumpy and the sleeves uneven,
that i loved it even more.
i never liked ann very much.
she reminded me of false perfection.
and her two dead eyes were always staring at me,
boring into my soul.
so, no, i did not like her very much.
when i was ten,
my dog liked ann more than i did.
so she slobbered all over her,
tore at her with sharp teeth,
and gave her loving kisses.
her head was found in the trash,
her arms underneath the couch,
and her legs dumped in the dirt.
so that was the death of ann,
the idea of false perfection
and dead eyes,
torn apart like a rag doll…
like the rag doll she was.
and then i sewed her back together,
not her legs or her arms or her dead eyes,
but her lovely dress that i always wanted for myself,
and i kept it in a small drawer in my desk,
to remind me of beauty
and the existence of beauty in imperfection.