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Tiny ballerina twirls delicately,
Lacy dress flutters in the breeze,
Petite hands in position up free,
Perfectly pirouettes with ease.
Pink, soft cloth clings so tight,
To beautiful, shiny, porcelain skin,
The figurine’s body, a perfect sight,
I close the box and trap her in.
In the silent room I wait and stare,
And look into the cracked parallel,
My dirty features, my stringy hair,
Face of a child who’s lived through hell.
I pull a legging up my shin,
Over my purple, sore, beaten thigh,
Over my scratched and torn-up skin,
I pull the frayed strings in a bow and tie.
I slip the ragged dress over my head,
The faded fabric once lovely and pink,
I pull my tattered slippers from under my bed,
I see a more beautiful reflection wink.
I stand and let the torn tutu fluff out,
Stringy, vein-like gathered cloth,
Red lipstick makes my lips seem to pout,
Powdery foundation like wings of a moth.
I open the box and music pours,
A tiny crystalline tune of love,
A warmth I have never felt before,
A song surely played by angels above.
I dance like I never have before,
Glowing with grace and charm,
Mirror hides all my cuts and sores,
I see myself untainted, unharmed.
I hold this gun against my chest,
Cold metal sends chills through me,
I will soon be eternally at rest,
I will die beautiful and free.
 Morgana The Heartless · Sun Jul 08, 2007 @ 10:03pm · 0 Comments |
