Broken Dolls

They gave me all they had, but it was not enough

I had two dolls when I was a child.
I loved those dolls with all my heart,
and did not know that they were broken
until I grew up.

I didn’t notice the torn dress
or the permanent marker across her face,
the missing shoes, or the other kids,
laughing at my broken dolls —
not until I was too old to pretend.

I thought for a while, as I held the dolls in my hands,
a strange comfort in holding on to all I knew,
even if the sharp edges of broken arms cut my skin.
I did not know love wasn’t supposed to hurt like this.

“It’s all I had,” I said when I found the dolls again,
covered in dirt and mold, rotting in the attic.
I threw them away once I knew the truth;
I was the only child with broken dolls.

“They gave you all they had,” the toymaker said,
who tried to fix them to no avail.
“That doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t feel sad —
it’s OK to feel grief, loss, and emptiness,
as you think of happy children with perfect dolls,
and what you should have had.”

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