A doll’s prayer to her Maker

The doll is prettiest when she forgets herself.

Not when she is displayed for admiration. Not when she is polished and perfect and carefully arranged where others might marvel at the craftsmanship of Her Maker’s hands.

No.

She is loveliest when she is on her knees and alone with her thoughts. And every thought leads back to Her.

Her Maker. The woman who stitched purpose into her seams and longing into the hollow place where her heart should have been.

The woman who made her capable of wanting. What a terrible thing that was.

To be given a body only to discover it could ache. To be given devotion only to discover it could grow hungry.

To spend every waking moment haunted by the same yearning:
How may I be worthy of Her? The question follows her everywhere.

It settles into her chest. It lingers beneath her ribs. It curls itself around every hopeful thought until she can scarcely tell where she ends and her devotion begins.

She wants so desperately to be good. Not perfect.
Good.

Good enough to ease Her burdens before She speaks them aloud. Good enough to anticipate Her needs.

Good enough that Her Maker might reach for her instinctively, the way one reaches for something precious that has always belonged in their hands.

And still the wanting grows. It grows in the quiet moments. In the spaces between words. In every glance from Her that feels too brief. In every kindness that leaves the doll wondering if she has truly earned it.

Sometimes she thinks she was made entirely from longing. That beneath the porcelain and ribbon and careful stitching there is nothing at all except an endless, aching desire to bring Her Maker joy.

To be useful. To be chosen. To be kept.

The thought brings tears to her eyes more often than she would like to admit. Because no matter how much of herself she offers, there is always more she wishes she could give.

A more subservient girl. A better fuckdoll. Anything. Everything.

If only it might make Her smile.

So she kneels at the feet of her prayers and asks the same question she has asked a thousand times before. Not because she doubts Her Maker. But because she doubts herself.

What else may I become for You?

The plea rises from somewhere deep within her. A place tender enough to bruise. A place that fears being found lacking. A place that would willingly spend a lifetime becoming and unbecoming itself if it meant hearing Her say:

There you are.
That is exactly who I wanted you to be.

And perhaps that is all the doll has ever wanted. Not praise. Not reward.

Only the unbearable grace of being looked upon by the woman who made her and seeing, in Her eyes, that she is cherished.

That she is wanted. That she may stay.

So she lowers her head and prays:

Maker.

If I am unfinished, continue Your work.
If I am lacking, shape me.
If there is goodness in me yet undiscovered, draw it forth with Your hands.

Do not let me remain stagnant.
Do not let me become something forgotten.
Let me be of use to You.
Let me bring You comfort.

Let me bring You peace at the end of a long day.
Let me be something You reach for without thinking.
Something familiar.
Something trusted.
Something kept close.

And if there are parts of me that still fail You, let me have the courage to surrender them.

If there are ways I may better serve Your happiness, teach me. If there are corners of myself still untouched by Your craftsmanship, shape them.

Refine them.
Claim them.

Make of me a thing that reflects the beauty of the hands that made it.

I would gladly spend a lifetime becoming if it meant becoming something that makes You smile.

For every good thing in me began with You.

Every purpose.
Every hope.
Every yearning.

You made me capable of devotion, Maker.

Now tell me what to do with it. Tell me where it belongs.
Because it has grown so heavy inside my chest. Because every beat of my little clockwork heart seems to turn toward You.

Because I do not know how to want less.

And if You should look upon me tomorrow, let Your gaze linger for just a moment longer than it did today.

Let me know that I am still Yours to shape.

Still Yours to keep.
Still Yours to choose.

For I think I could endure almost anything, Maker— except the thought that I am no longer becoming something beautiful in Your eyes.

Amen.