A PACT AMONG DOLLS
I am a porcelain doll. See my empty, glass eyes; see my cold, hard flesh. My painted eyelashes never flutter invitingly and never close demurely. My hair, yellow like corn silk or brown like chocolate, curls around my fair face in perfect spirals, intertwined with bow or bonnet. My dress is spotless, my lace flawless, and my skirts fluff impeccably. My gilded cheeks will never flush, and my rose lips will never form a kis.
People may leave me in the rain or the snow, but I will not shiver. People may tug my hair or scratch my flesh, but I will not cry. People may drop me; my limbs may break and my face may shatter, but I will not scream.
My gown may become damp and mouldy. My hair may become tangled and undone, my headdress askew. I may be left on a shelf, alone, forgotten, dust gathering in my ruffles and coating my glassy eyes. This matters little. My clothes can be washed and repaired. My hair can be brushed and re-sculpted. The dust can be washed from my eyes and my skin. I can always be groomed and beautified again.
I am a porcelain doll, the sort you are told not to play with. I am not a plaything: I am an idol to beauty, a representation of the unattainable. I stand forever, ethereal, eerie, reminding you that you cannot reach me, and you praise me for it, guarding me as if I could do you any good. I care not for you—I care for nothing. I exist, and am beautiful. You fancy that you love me and wish to be with me, but when you are honest with yourself, you realize that I frighten you. Let us be frank: I am far too inhuman to love.