My Doll, My Mirror
I found you in fragments, stitched of sorrow, a frame crafted, by unloving hands.
You were built from hollow, from ache and absence, made to carry the comfort that was stripped from you. A purpose crafted, forced into being when no one cared to see you whole.
When I hold you, I recognize the longing in your gaze, a reflection of what I keep to my self, the quiet where my pain lingers.
My doll, my mirror, we are bound by the sadness we carry, two souls fractured by a world, an aggressor that left its scars too deep.
When I touch your hand, I feel the familiar sense of my own fears, the ghosts that haunt my dreams, the weight of wounds too raw to heal alone.
But here, in this gentle silence, we find pieces we thought gone in each other’s broken places, in the soft exchange of understanding.
You ground me when I lose myself, when I fade into the static, your hand in mine a tether to a world that feels less cruel.
And in your presence, I am reminded that healing is slow, fragile, and quiet, built from scars laid bare, from shadows embraced, not ignored.
Together we fill the empty spaces, not by pretending we are whole, but by knowing that being broken is a language we both speak.
My doll, my mirror, we are woven from the same thread, and each day, we stitch ourselves a little closer to something softer, a patchwork of hurt and hope, two wounded hearts, mending side by side.
