It’s now just a profile,
In between the dog-eared pages of an old book.
The same one you browsed through many times before.
An obsession of,
Simple dated pictures-in color.
A paper dolls reflection.
Though, I am still naked and dimensionless in your mind.
You would explore my body with one hand.
The art of silence and curve of my hips inspired you.
Your fingers moving carefully-
Amongst my paper thin parts.
You had emulated the perfect outline,
Dark wet lips.
Manufactured only for your pleasure.
Scantily dressing me in skimpy pink dresses,
The color of vomit and immaturity.
Oh, how I loathed that color.
You knew this-
You cursed me and spit-
When I lost my temper and,
Ripped off the ugly pink dress you purchased.
A thousand dollar gown,
On a ten cent body.
I will never truly be your Betsy McCall.
And you will never be my Dr. Kildare.
We were merely playmates,
I am only just paper.
Recyclable, replaceable and