I dust off the old box in the attic,

the one in the far back.

It has been so long 

I don’t remember what’s inside.

Yet I open and see 

and can’t believe my eyes.

Such a pretty porcelain doll is lying inside. 

Look at the porcelain doll

that’s abused by the dark,

where no other person 

can see her cracks.

Such a dainty porcelain doll

too weak to fight back,

the evil that lurks

striking her fast.

Hidden is the porcelain doll

that no child is to play with,

for she is far too bruised

and easily breaks in.

Crying is the porcelain doll,

used and left behind

in her usual box corner

that no one will find.

Now old and frail the doll just sits by

resting and waiting for that final goodbye. 

Her dark thick curls 

frame that small face,

so wise and delicate

so old and aged.

When will I leave her

or will she leave me first?

And break into little pieces

that no one can paste. 

Not looking at those eyes

that watched me become

the fine young woman

she knew I would form,

I hold the doll’s hand as I drag her inside

the old dusty box 

where now she belongs.

And prays to forget the times when she shined

still pretty and new 

and far so alive. 

Now gone is the porcelain doll

I used to care for.

Who brought me such joy 

and helped me more than I thought.

For she was always there

just watching and waiting

and looking out for me in ways that I never saw. 

Yet in her final moments

I had never been there.

She had left all forgotten 

and used and aged.