Testimony from the Black Box

It was...
From that old black box
That you kept in the attic
Forever waiting to sell
One-armed Barbies, headless
GI Joes. "Good as New",
written in magenta crayon on
cheap white construction paper.

I took grasp of the blood
Red locks, the soft grip
of child's fingers. The
small intestines lining
the undersides of a
plaited skirt much too
short, even for a whore.
I ripped those out too and
jealousy tossed her aside.

Then I climbed inside that
black box. The sides jagged
and gently cutting red
patterns into my sides.
One through my ribcage,
the other near my neck. I
sat there, and waited,
Hoping that I could again be
a "Good as New" Raggedy Anne.