To be crude,

To be rude,

Is something she never learned.

To be sweet,

To never cheat,

Was stamped into her mind and burned.

A perfect little porcelain doll waiting in an abyss,

Perfect on the outside.

Folded fragile hands folded on her lap she waited,

Broken on the inside,

For a spontaneous metamorphosis.

Waiting…

Pursed lips, perfect manners, and a quiet smile.

Waiting…

Racing thoughts, unimaginable pain, and an unchallenged mind.

Waiting…

The wind blew too hard one day,

And the little doll fell from her stand.

Shattered into jagged pieces no doctor could mend.

And out stepped a creature who couldn’t be planned.

She wasn’t called a doll,

She wasn’t called a girl,

She wasn’t called a woman,

She didn't call herself,

Anything at all.