I’d have a harder time with a little girl moving in here than I will with an 8 year old boy moving in. Dr. D and I discussed how nearly fearful I am of little girls but comfortable w/ boys to a certain degree. When I see a little girl I see nothing at all. I see an empty shell with curls and clothes. I see a doll, like a porcelain doll posed and manipulated to sit or stand as told. I have a really hard time seeing them as anything other than that. It’s hard to see them as real, living, breathing human beings. If I dropped one of the many porcelain dolls that I collect it would shatter on the floor and expose an empty inside. There would be nothing but broken pieces inside three layers of lace under a perfect little dress. I can’t see little girls as real. I can’t see me as a little girl. I see them as dolls, figures manipulated into doing whatever, whenever. She has no control, no choices, nothing about her that’s just hers. A long time ago I wrote the poem called My Own. Part of it says:
To each his own
His own talent, star quality, exemplary field of excellence
Drawn from given abilities with no explanation come
Hatters, tailors, leather workers and toy makers
But some are given over to toys
For never a moment distinct or defining outside the imagination of wistful, pony tailed little girls.
Held tightly then tossed at the blowing of the wind
Only coddled when she feels like it
When she wills it, always a toy and nothing more
Until he snatches from stolen places the breath of life
And leaps to his feet where sweet freedom abounds
Will he be his own.
I meant that the other way around. Little girls get tossed about, always nothing more than a play thing and at the mercy of others. It has got to sound horrible, I know, to say such things about little girls. Continue reading ‘Little Girls’
RECENT COMMENTS