My little princess.

My china doll with your

peachy skin and

golden hair. 

In pink frills

I dressed you up,

combed you and curled you.

Made you into

my special pet,

my little angel,

to be loved and cherished.

My creation.

My little girl.

But all the time

you were making up yourself,

getting ready to 

smash the porcelain,

and break out

to become 

the creation you had

already made up

even before you painted 

and inked your pearly skin,

combed your hair straight,

and gelled it 

into jagged spikes

with a pink splash.

Shockingly, piercing the past,

you broke out into your future.

For you were never a princess,

never a doll,

and most of all, little girl,

you were never mine,

never mine to mould.


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