I’m looking for my paper doll. The one that I’d put super hero capes on. I’ve had it forever. Tucked away in a little box somewhere. Where the fuck is she? I used to draw these Wonder Woman outfits, sometimes she’d be an Amazonian goddess.
It really was the coolest thing.
I can’t find her anywhere. My little paper doll. The one that used to be so strong for me. These little outfits that I’ve drawn. They’re not big enough for me.
I drove this puttering, white convertible in my dream. She wasn’t a doll. But she was paper. Flip flapping when I looked into the mirror. I had this crinkly face, but not like wrinkles, I wasn’t old. I was her. I was paper.
I’d park the car and open the trunk. All the outfits that I’d dream up as a kid, they were real and I could put them on.
It was in the middle of the desert. There was this spinning contraption, this hobby-horse of sorts. It had these streamlining, spinning whirls of colour. It was this levitating sort of alive box. I was headed straight for it in the middle of nowhere. Like it contained all the answers.
But that image kept distracting me. My face as paper. I guess the more I focused on it, the more this world would shatter. The corners of reality coming undone. I stopped trying to get there. I couldn’t control it anymore.
I pulled over and starting tearing at this paper all around me. The skies, the distant contraption, whatever the hell that thing was. It all came undone. Then I started tearing at me. Pulling and ripping apart the very fabric of my being.
It was just this whiteness. This blank. Nothing.
The peace of it.
I found the doll. She always looks so different than how you remembered her.
I’ll rip her up into a million little pieces and let the quails eat me.
What happens when I don’t have the totem anymore.
When I am her?