Closet of Dolls

This poem is based on a part from the book "Sleeveless". I might add more to it as it seems unfinished. I know this is difficult to understand but please still comment me with your thoughts. Thank you so much.
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Into a closet,
thought to be mine,
but there's no escape,
it seems to get larger,
with every step I take

It is filled with old toys,
notebooks, makeup, dolls,
filled with things from the past,
but the dolls seem alive,
each wearing a mask

Stained windows above them,
each has a personality of their own,
I walk to the first one,
has a frozen expression of confusion,
as she had an abortion done

On the stained window,
a picture of her future child,
with a face full of love and devotion,
loving her for her sacrifice,
this is shown with much emotion

The next doll,
dressed in vintage black,
cuts along her skin,
her insides are hollow,
she is sickly thin

But her blood is fake,
false and sickly-sweet,
her face filled with fear,
The stain window above her her,
is clear

The other doll,
with bleeding palms,
has done everything she could,
but yet is so hopeless,
didn't do the things she should

Her blood leaves her palms,
floats away to the window,
so abstract, so red,
this closet of dolls,
is full of dread