The Dolly's Head

The dolly’s head lies under the car. A red flower by its crown. There are no signs of viable life. I check. That is what I used to do. Check for life. I think all that checking left tyre marks on my head. My face. Like the dolly. Squashed. No longer a loveable little thing for you to hold. They are working on something. I can feel. I pass by. Mute. Without consequence. They are not working on me. It is harder than you think. To become lost. It requires motivation. Co-ordination. Execution. When they keep knocking on your door there is still a chance. I set my eyes high up in my dolly’s skull and pretend I am no longer waiting. Put my body back into filthy clothes. Hang the outside clothes up for tomorrow. Baby’s best. Line up the metal flowers. Plant them. Try to ignore the day running out. Knowing I will be at the window again. Choking. Gasping for breath I don’t even want to own. Breathing makes your heart beat and when your heart beats your head thinks and when your head thinks you understand that you will be tidied up in minutes. And my head is so full it is empty. And I long to be that dolly. Separate from its body. Rolling in the road. A little flower by my temple. A little hand for me to hold.