An Error of Scale

I poked holes in the doll's face with a pin.
I pulled off the doll's head and looked
inside: the doll's head was hollow.
The doll's neck was a stub, I cut
the top of the stub off and looked inside:
the doll's torso, too, was empty.

I lit the doll's hair with a lighter
and it flared slightly and melted into
a hard, shiny, little black ball.
I dug out the doll's eyes, they
were mounted in little plastic cups
the better to tilt and swivel
and that the lids might lift, or settle,
or perch, drunkenly, half-open.
When stepped on, the eyes break
with a crunch, but the cups just bend,
letting the eye shards fall out.

I buried the doll, and all the doll's
little doll friends, in the park, near
the water fountain, beside the jungle gym.
I think I did what I did because
I'm American, and because I'm
a girl, and because I'm Korean,
and because I'm adopted,
and because I am not getting
adequate amounts of bran in my diet,
and because I'm a boy, and because
I'm dating a woman who cannot climax,
and because I cannot climax,
and because I am underpaid,
and because my oily father only
showed my sister any affection,
and because it felt really fucking good,
and though it might sound silly
to most people, I did it because
I hate dolls, and more to the point,
I hate what dolls mean, what they need.