There’s a doll in my hand. I don’t know how it got there.
A miserable-looking thing, with uncombed ratty hair.
She wears a velvet dress, that attracted many moths.
I tried to sew and patch the worn and tattered cloths.
Lips were rather perched into a resentful pout.
What made this doll so angry? What was she all about?
Then one morning I found her hiding under the stairs.
I guess she wasn’t grateful of my attempted repairs.
It was rather strange at first. Her moving all around.
Was I placing and forgetting her on the tile ground?
There was a nice old spot on a shelf above my desk.
That’s where I would put her but she became a pest.
The little pitter-patter of her ruby porcelain shoes,
Began to terrify me and she would be amused.
I’d hear a tiny giggle in the closet in the hall,
Or hear her playing and rolling a small glass ball.
And finally I noticed in the kitchen a missing knife.
Little devil plotting to send me to the afterlife.