Living Doll.
2003-01-06 - 9:12 p.m.

Good books and good times don't take the emptiness away like they used to. Those things still warm me but these days they don't quite crack the ice. Years ago, it was easier for me to shrug off my war wounds, to cover up my scrapes and the bleeding holes in me with the latest Dolce & Gabanna, rouge noir nail polish and lethal looking sandals. Look at me if you dare. Look at me and we'll see who looks away first.

That band aid doesn't work anymore.

The tang of bitterness makes my teeth ache even if the taint hasn't quite touched my heart. That stupid organ remains as frustratingly naive as it ever was, beating on in hope. Hope of a someone, a something that may never come. That's probably scientifically impossible. I want my fit. My match. My reason.

Right now, I am without a reason, and lord can't you tell it to look at me. Not on the surface. Not even in photographs, but look into my eyes when I've stopped speaking or laughing. Look beyond the glistening fraise-glossed cupids bow and doll-like pinkened cheeks. Past the undisguisable freckles, face powder and spikey black lashes. Even beyond the jaded set of my expression. Not at my face but my eyes. I'm lost. I'm waiting for you to find me.

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