Pretty

Jennifer Paige©1997

The porcelain doll

In an ancient dress of frills and lace,

Antique and crumbling to the touch,

With silken auburn curls that spring back

            Into their designated place when tugged,

Sits upon the shelf and watches you, her captor, through

            Green glass eyes that flutter shut beneath

            Long lashes at a tilt of her head.

You play with your new toys and she watches,

            Confused.

Isn’t she your precious one?

The special piece in your collection?

She watches from beneath the glass ceiling,

            Dust growing thick on the dome.

It hazes her view of you.

She cannot reach out her hand as it is pinned

            To her side.

She cannot turn her head for it is held from behind with

            A rod and a clamp.

She remembers resilience, how her skin shown

            White like her new wedding dress when

            She was first pulled from the box all those years ago.

And the laughter she had heard when she chose

            A new dress, or slept, or kissed you on the cheek,

The bliss of being pampered, and powdered, and pretty

            Has faded with years of neglect.

She was once your best friend, your baby, and your love.

But she’s become a little doll,

            She let her voice get too small,

            Too small to scream,

            Too faint to shatter the glass of her cage.

Now she’s just something pretty to look at,

            Something convenient.

A piece to brag about and show off to your friends,

            An ornament up your sleeve.

If you listen closely, she whispers “set me free,”

            Take her down and break her.

Her sullen porcelain face and fragile hands won’t fight back.

Anything would be better than to remain what I’ve become.

Back to Poems 1997

Back to My Poetry