Girlblogger
I refuse to bleed on the altar of your self-actualisation. Your sense of curiosity is corrupted and perverse; it drives you to a child-like desire to dismantle me.
Ball joints and porcelain, you ogle me through the glass in my most fractured state. I’m prettier in pieces, you think, and your head undulates up and down in sickly approval.
Perhaps you succumb. Perhaps you take your tools to me.
You tap at the surface of my porcelain skin until it cracks. The tiny, wailing crunch of my pieces breaking into smaller ones excites your animal body. You paint tears onto my face with shaking hands. You poke and you prod and it pleases you.
The finest toys are the ones that please you.












