Each irritated sigh as you turn the pages pierces them
and makes them wish to bind themselves to the unsatisfying storyline,
so that they might close themselves and give you back blankness.
They can't though--
they just sit there, face down in the laundry basket,
as sorry as undone chores.
The sorrydolls are sorry that the marinated chicken was disappointing.
You said nothing, but they could tell
by the way you chewed so slowly,
and concentrated on the buttered roll instead.
The sorrydolls aren't hungry, they never are--
they are stuffed sick with empty.
Out by the curb,
propped inside the trash can,
the sorrydolls sit in the dark with the chicken bones and the greasy foil.
They will not tell anyone that you can't cook for shit;
not a whisper, even to the trash collectors.
Such discretion would be laudable, if you gave a damn what they say, or to whom.
The sorrydolls keep coming back to you, like bad pennies,
slipping themselves through the piggy bank slot of your life,
like dull, thrifty relatives.
Dead despots, writhing in hell,
aren't sorry, despite the mountain of skulls at their feet.
Sorrydolls would do them no good,
but you, YOU! So much to be sorry for,
Image: "sorrydolls" by Susie McMahon. Written for Real Toads mini-challenge.