I am broken.

Completely and utterly

Shattered.

I have no hope,

No peace in my soul,

So I will forever be

Damaged.

Running from a life of servitude,

Forced into a Stepford mold,

Perfect hair, perfect smile, impeccably dressed,

And yet inside

Total chaos

Pillows arranged and plumped,

Floors polished, not a spec of dust,

Everything has a place and everything in its place

And yet under the surface

Nothing but filth.

On his arm,

Paraded around,

But rarely introduced

As anything other than the Mrs.

Who am I?

Your maid.

Your secretary.

Your cook.

Your whore.

Good enough to serve you,

To service you,

And yet

Not to confide in.

I walk beside you,

But never am I equal

I take care of your home,

But own nothing

I sleep in your bed,

But hear no words of passion

A tool.

You use me when needed,

Then pack me away

In the two story, two car garage

Model of a home.

Here in your doll house,

 I wonder purposely,

From room to room,

Dusting, polishing, and organizing.

Christ! Who am I?

When did I loose myself?

When did my thoughts

Become his thoughts?

When did my body

Become his body?

When did I cease to exist?

I use to dream,

To hope,

To want more

From my life.

Now I sit on a bus stop bench

Praying that he doesn’t search for me

And hoping at the same time

He does.

My face is dirty,

I smell of the rotten food

From the dumpster I slept behind

And I haven’t brushed my hair,

Hell, I haven’t brushed my teeth in weeks.

I fear I will never remember,

What I use to dream,

Where my hopes once laid,

In what direction I wanted my life to head.

I tremble,

Will I always be broken?