ih-tur-ni-tee

This is the story of a girl,
a girl who collected toys and played with them
while making noise,
in her bed she wasn't coy,
she was more blunt than a club to the head,
her smile, her toys were fed
as she wound them up to let them loose,
to dance in circles chasing her smell,
intoxicated by her scent and her spell,
her stories became their Duracells
and one day she forgot to charge their batteries.
The better part of them now gather dust
as they rust in a non existent closet
with other forgotten toys.
They all call her regret,
through hushed sounds their thoughts concur,
though their eyes have never met.
Dove came with strings,
to them she attached her toys limbs,
and moved them to and fro at the sigh of a breath.
Her eyes, a black abyss
through which one toy crept out of,
escaping through an eye socket,
Sliding down the ridge of her nose,
extending its arms to hold her lips,
because they were sweet and because they spat razors;
to think that they praised her.
She coreographed a dance and they would swing from the hips,
in a trance, playing to save her.
They made themselves sinners, and her a winner.
Looking for something
where there was nothing
their hands have formed blisters
that resemble the volcanoes inside
their chests, ready to erupt the hate she left in her place.
They gather dust as they rust
burning the last remaining images of her face.
Battery's dead, and now she is too.