When we first looked into each others eyes, it was the breath I held in, and the beat that I skipped.
When I almost kissed you at the New Year’s party, it was the colour of the fireworks and the drink in my hand.
When we talk about nothing in the middle of the night, it’s the colour of your lips and the shaking of my hands.
When we embrace with every goodbye, each time a little longer than the last, it’s the mark I want to leave on your body and mind.
When I try to tell you, it’s the lump in my throat and the thickness in the air.
When you don’t see me for who I truly am, it’s the colour fading in my eyes.
There isn’t any colour when you’re gone.
A Doll's House
Luxury, decadence, riches not meant for me,
These goods belong to the little people.
Chandeliers hang in the living and dining rooms,
While tiny candles light the darkness in the bedrooms.
Silks and velvet adorn the upholstery,
While miniature landscapes cover every inch of the walls.
China plates and crystal goblets are exhibited in the kitchen,
Washed and polished until it glows with pride,
And copper pots are hung over the cooker with care by young hands.
Elaborate tea sets are delicately placed on tables, while the dim glow of the lamps
Fill this little world with warmth and comfort.
Fingers and eyes scan across the objects in the library and the tiles in the bathroom,
Caressing their favourite objects.
All this makes this house a home.
This beautiful house is not mine, but it is not theirs, either.
The little people, with their faces calm and expressionless,
Are too fake and plain to belong here.
Cheap cotton is the material used for their clothes, and their limbs are wooden and rigid.
It should belong to dolls with fine golden curls, painted lips and dainty hands,
Not to those with hair made from string and beads for eyes.
They stay in the house, but no attempt of play is made.
The juxtaposition of the plain against the extravagant is too strange,
And so it remains empty.
Fine layers of dust collect on the furniture and roof of the house over the years.
The lights remain off, and this, my dolls house, once a treasure, a little paradise,
Becomes an abandoned toy.
Bethany Sanderson has more writing available on her blog, and can be found on Twitter @inkstainedhand1. She is currently working on a poetry collection.