As a young girl, I had many dolls that were made up of different things... cloth, plastic, vinyl, porcelain... I loved them all. Even my porcelain dolls who always seemed so indifferent. When I held them close, their skin was so cool against mine.
No matter how many childish kisses and caresses I lavished upon them, they never warmed up. A blank, glassy stare would be the only reward for my efforts.
O, you, my love, must be made of porcelain!
It is so clear to me now...
This is why you never let your emotions show; why you never seem to really see me...
I never stopped loving my porcelain dolls, in hopes that someday they might respond to my gentle touch.
No matter how many childish kisses and caresses I lavished upon them, they never warmed up. A blank, glassy stare would be the only reward for my efforts.
O, you, my love, must be made of porcelain!
It is so clear to me now...
This is why you never let your emotions show; why you never seem to really see me...
I never stopped loving my porcelain dolls, in hopes that someday they might respond to my gentle touch.
Just know, I shall do the same for you, my darling, porcelain love.
Someday your hard exterior will crack and I know a responsive human flesh must lie underneath.
Maybe then, you will love me back?
{Picture by me, of me and one of my porcelain dolls, Emily.}
Someday your hard exterior will crack and I know a responsive human flesh must lie underneath.
Maybe then, you will love me back?
{Picture by me, of me and one of my porcelain dolls, Emily.}
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Silhouettes of a secret. A story told over a cuppa. Or perhaps just sitting on that stone bench, basking in the moonlight... and not saying anything at all.
("I can no other answer make but thanks, and thanks, and ever thanks." -Shakespeare, Twelfth Night)