4 Arms Good, Two Legs Bad

The store is quiet,

the flickering lights finally at rest.

The air is eerily still.

Dusty.

It is dark and the humans sleep.

I wake,

it is too uncomfortable to rest for

my shoulders are strapped back and

my legs tied down.

Only my gaze can wander,

it is terrified of what it sees.

Us, the rebels, we call them the clones.

The empire strikes back.

They are dressed in white, all perfectly aligned.

Their smiles so fake they scare.

Their eyes staring blankly forwards.

Unblinking.

Blind to all but what they wish to see.

Their little blond curls, perfect ringlets of burnt beauty.

They are the porcelain dolls.

Lips stained the red of blood, noses perky

like the beaks of the hunting birds.

I stand with them but not by them.

Strapped to my pink box.

Tied to society by little plastic straps.

But my eyes are as brown as my hair. My own

ringlets odd and asymmetrical. My

teeth aren't straight, my lips are pink.

I am a porcelain doll, the one that went all wrong.

So I wriggle off my ledge of horror, onto

the cold linoleum floor of nightmares.

I hop my way to the next aisle over. To join with

my fellow rebels.

"Hail comrades!" I call as I look over my loyal subjects:

A pink G.I. Joe. A one-armed lego-man. A braying cow.

Let the revolution begin.