What the Dolls Sang
Our bones of wood
eyes of bone
skin of cloth
clothes stitched in
let’s get wasted
on the black mold
under the wallpaper
on the black mold
under their wallpaper
under their skin
let’s waste their willpower
in dreams of kisses
taken not given
of wasted smiles
of lips too dry
to play pretend
let’s pick their threads
let’s snip their strings
let’s cut their sleep
down to the mold
and do nothing again.
— Mort Duffy