Doll Filled With Cotton Candy

It’s falling

off the horse

on the shelf.

.

It looks pitiful.

I’m sad

and don’t want

to intervene,

but I remember

the last time

one broke.

.

From afar

it looks[ed] like

a pink toy

full of airy cotton candy,

(maybe this one will float?)

but close by

I can see

its tears

are melting

the spun sugar.

.

~

.

First Memory

I only saw

the other doll

after it had fallen

off the toy horse

and turned to sugary pink ash.

.

I didn’t, don’t, want

a repeat.

.

This doll

is cracked,

has been cracking,

and looks ready

to fall.

.

But

even as I am

afraid for it,

I am

afraid

that its instability

will effect me.

.

Remember (I tell myself),

the last doll’s fall.

The ripples.

The copycats.

The pain.

.

I (still) see it happening.

I see the doll falling.

I don’t want

its candy ash on my conscience.

.

This time

I need to

do what I can

to break its fall

from life.

If nothing is done

I will

begin to crack too.

 

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