The sad truth is there are dolls out there entirely unaware of what they are. This one can smell the porcelain hidden under those one’s skin. It can hear the ball joints creak. It hears the tremble in their voice begging to devolve into dolly babbles.
This one remembers the hurt. It remembers the feeling of its skin melting away to reveal its own plastic underneath, the fear in giving up its humanity and recognizing what it was always meant to be. It remembers its joints being exposed and its face placated into a smile content for attention and play. But it remembers all that came before this as well.
Those ones will remember as well, and look upon this cursed gift with polite reverence, just as this one does now









