Conversation with George, Pt. 2

I could ask what you were made to do,

I reply.

But I don’t think I want to know.

That’s not a secret, he says.  I was

made to think.

And I do think.  I tell you things,

sometimes, when you’re half-asleep,

or not afraid or interested or

desperate.

I wish you were more interested.

I would tell you more.

I know enough, I answer.

But you don’t, he insists.

You really don’t.  I could tell you

about the oceans and why the

rivers flow and what makes

you not want to wake up.

I could tell you so much.

The boys come, scale the walls.

They whisper things to me,

so that I know why.

Sometimes I escape,

but this is my home.

And the dolls with knives

chase me.  Dolls as

big as you are.

I don’t like them very much.

No, I say, they don’t sound

very nice.

They aren’t, he answers.

They shout things at me from

the other side of the

walls.

“You, boy,” they say,

“you shut up, or we’ll cut

you!”

You wouldn't think a doll

with blonde hair and

pig tails could be so

vicious.