I move through my stop-motion animation life,

surrounded by broken porcelain dolls.

Their glass eyes and twitching mouths speak to me

but I don’t hear their words, I don’t hear their words.

They move too fast, they speak too fast, too fast

for me to care.

 

They pass me in their fast forward lives,

empty chatter on the trains, in the streets.

Chittering and twittering with no meaning,

there’s never any meaning. And still I don’t hear.

I don’t want to hear.  I don’t care, can’t make myself care.

 

I stand on a motorway bridge as the dolls whiz by,

red streaks of taillights as I scream at the air.

I scream for release.  I scream for deliverance

but they don’t hear, they don’t care, can’t let themselves care.

Why should they care? 

I should pull myself together.  I should cheer up.

 

So I sit amongst them, watching them rush by,

watching them laugh and watching them cry,

watching the cracks form on their freaky, perfect faces.

Porcelain tears stain porcelain cheeks,

and none are shed for me.