Defective Doll

Here's the page, frayed at the ends
staring before me
I can only stutter small sentences to her (the page),
she's my client of solitude, letting me
mark her with my existence
of even being here

Maybe you're the only thing making
sense to me anymore,
but my mind is always racing so
I can't get a word in out loud
only the page ever listens to me,
and delves beneath my irony surface

Is something wrong with me?
I feel like a defective speaking doll
whose voicebox only speaks
in slurs, and no one can love
a human not made from real flesh

I went wrong in the system,
so the seams on my doll clothes
tear away, when the children pry at them
and run off
I'm alone on the shelf--

You can't feel my touch,
only the cold, hard plastic grazes
your fingertips...
I'm not real.