She looks just like me, my babydoll.
Just a bit smaller, of course.
Her wavy black locks are swirls of mod-acrylic fibers, her dark skin is plastic, her cocoa eyes were painted on. She has one set of clothes that are stuck to her skin, and she cannot change them – they are simply the cards she has been dealt.
I have noticed that I take her with me everywhere I go.
She’s stuffed into my backpack on the way to classes, thrown into my car whenever I take it out for a drive. She clings to the thin fabrics I wear to parties, and she sits atop my head and stares down at my notes as I struggle to study for exams.
When I’m eating she is there, although sometimes I do not feed her. She does not always deserve food.
Sometimes when I lay my head down on a soft pillow to sleep, I force her to stay awake. She does not always deserve sleep.
I like to be on my phone when I relax, but I don’t let her relax with me. She gets thrown out the window, to be dealt with as nature sees fit. And boy, does she get battered. But then I eventually feel bad and go outside to retrieve her.
On days that I am angry, I take it all out on her. It’s painful and it’s cathartic. I shout, I scream, I throw her against the wall, I tear her one set of clothing to shreds. Sometimes I like to take a pair of scissors or a knife and slice away at her lifeless exterior. If it’s a really bad day, I manage to carve off a chunk of plastic. Maybe a lock of hair, too.
When my rampage is done, I sit on the edge of my bed, holding her and her tattered remains in my hands. And I feel guilty and sad, every time.
So I piece her back together.
Sometimes I can make quick work of it, sometimes it takes longer, but I always make sure to do the repairs. I cannot stand to look at her broken form, all s c r e w e d u p, inside and out. It sickens me, makes my stomach roil and my head throb.
It makes me think, maybe she does not deserve this. Maybe I am too harsh on her.
So I fix her, and I cradle her in my hands. I whisper sweet nothings into her plastic ears, stroke her fibrous hair, and rock her in my arms, back and forth and back and forth and back and forth.
And then I gently set her aside, ignoring the sting of my tender hands, and I burrow under the covers. I promise myself to be kinder to her from now on. I really should.
But time passes, and soon she deserves nothing all over again.