When she was younger, my sister would play with dolls.
When I say play, I mean something different.
She would pull out the hair, color on the face, and cut up the clothes.
I use to think she was a madman,
destroying the template of childhood
purchased by our own parents.
Now, I see what she was doing.
She was self-medicating.
She used it as a strange,
sadistic therapy.
It wasted away the feelings she had.
She isn’t much into
cutting people up at the age of 24,
so I believe we dodged that bullet.
I just use this to reflect on the anger
we can hold and how to release it.
I just know that in my house there still
remains that cut up doll.
It is just a safe reminder that
anger goes away, but
its repercussions don’t.
Strange, simple way of putting it,
but true nonetheless.
