My Mother's Son

I am your china doll, my
porcelain cheeks painted rouge
by the same crafty palm
that led me over puddles.
You see my eyes glazed
Hazel.

You pride yourself on the crafting
of my hands, soft and white as talcum.
You place me on a mental shelf
beside a doxy daughter of a doll
my arms outstretched falsely
and frozen for you friends
A Dorian of sorts.

I know you've planned a Marriage
of Convenience.
In a tiny church, you put me
in a tux and think of how
it will be black and white
to match my ebon hair and
egg-shell colored husk.
Anything but a lilac cummerbund.

You crafted me with care
to every fold and feature,
but I'm still naked
beneath your puppet get-up
What you thought your son would be before
He was.
My porcelain skin an talcum chest
are cracking.

You know
I'm not your china doll.