On a shelf sits a porcelain doll,
Her skin as white a snow.
She sits untouched, unloved, un cherished for years. Yet still relishes in a simple glow.
Her cheeks are rosy, and each strand of hair ignites light in the sun.
She is a trophy perched on her pedestal, seen by few and touched by none.
But beneath the China, lies a frail girl who is quivering from the cold.
Hidden by the rosy cheeks, are cracks seeping with fear as if it were growing mould.
Her skin embodies a ghost, the hair just wisps of drought.
And her voice is sunken into whispers from the weight of her heavy doubt.
Because all she ever wanted was for someone to stop,
To give her a single minute and notice her posture drops.
To see the cracks licking on her skin,
And finally see the girl left silenced within.
