It was a thin, miniature disaster
A still negative—forever holding the backwards truth.
We sat, my broomstick friend and I, in our closet
And pulled out all of the fabric, we remade ourselves
Into dolls: Coralines.
I felt alien. I wandered through my endless flesh.
I rested my head in the crook of your neck.
Coraline you called me and I didn’t correct you.
The rain was screaming.
After much time, the decay was evident.
I no longer remembered how the needle worked
and so there was no more sewing to be done.
No, Coraline with broomstick legs and broomstick arms
Lived in my closet as me.
A contest entry
- Originality by jamesbliss.
430 points, ended June 27, 61 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
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