“You are a doll” I heard

and with blushing cheeks I twirl in my frock

covered in frills and ribbons.

Nine I was, nine dolls I owned,

pretty ones with beautiful shoes and clothes

and a doll house of their own.

“You are a doll”, said mother

she’d brush my curly hair

she’d buy me pretty dresses with laces and elastics

she’d buy me shiny shoes with buckles.

The beautiful dusk settled

the house smelled of warm soup and bread

hosting an imaginary wedding was I lost in my house of dolls.

All so blurry but vivid,

I hear screams and wails

I hear her begging, pleading

I hear her silence.

“You are a doll”, said father

the foul smell of cheap red

his staggering walks dragging me out the house

swollen blue was her face

lying on the kitchen floor, unmoving

did she die?

Eighteen I am, nine years past

all made up and dressed in this house

this ‘house of dolls’ they name

how it smells of rotting grapes.

And everyday my mistress brushes my hair

and everyday the strange men shut the door behind

“You are a doll”, they say.

-Jyotsna Yogi