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by sung

Ed: There is depiction and/or mention of suicide and child sexual abuse in this, jsyk. Take care of yrself.

If you hold your breath, doesn’t time stop.

In her world there’s no wondering what to wear and everything fits. She can stand for hours without getting tired and she always feels at home. Her name is molded a thousand times in glossy plastic so she never has to wonder who she is.

I want her pore-less skin. I want her fixed smile. I want to be her. You have no idea how bad it gets.

The thing about a Polly Pocket is that there’s not much you can actually do with one.

They come in plastic cases that open like clamshells to reveal tiny dollhouses inside, decorated according to common girlish themes such as tea parties, mermaids, and beauty salons. The classic Polly Pocket doll is less than an inch tall with stiff, joint-less arms. Her feet are fused together forming a circular base that snaps into pre-determined slots in a few locations such as in the kitchen or at the bathroom vanity. The house is in large part purely decorative.

It’s the kind of toy you stare at more than play with. It’s the kind of toy I stare at and cherish too much to touch.

I’m sitting on the balcony with a pink umbrella when it’s dry out. It’s summer. I’m five years old.

I’m sitting under the umbrella and daydreaming. I pretend the umbrella is my own little house. Some day someone will tell me this is a very autistic thing to do but the fact is not everything can be afforded the luxury of a name. My mother doesn’t remember this game but I sit here staring into space often. Everyone thinks there’s something wrong with me because this is how I wile away so many hours. I sit and stare a space into being.

Someone in a movie says things seem so big when you’re a kid.

I remember being a tall, ungainly thing. I remember being in the way.

There was this commercial in the early 90s where a little girl opens a bright pink box and out pops a doll. As the doll is engulfed in CGI sparkles, the narrator’s honeyed voice tells me to imagine a doll that grows up with me. She’s called My Little Friend. The doll emerges from the glittering fog transformed into a life-size version of herself, rosy face pressed against the little girl’s as they embrace.

I imagine she’s warm.

I imagine the future.

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