You toss aside the cloth doll, sewn with bits of affection
and reach instead for the porcelain displayed in your collection.
You mirror the painted features on her glossy, polished face.
You admire the symmetry of her buttons, the adornment of her lace.
Then you sit her on the shelf with gentle, shaking hands.
Until one day you meet an ache that no one understands.
With tear-filled eyes and clumsy feet you dash into your room,
desperate for a firm hug to relieve your personal doom.
With a wild grasp, an abrupt fall, and a skipped heartbeat.
Empty shards of a once flawless doll shatter at your feet.
You search for the warmth and comfort of the tattered, cotton girl.
You clench her in your fingers until knotted pain unfurls.
Something in her seams shares, with you, the gift of devotion,
and teaches you that false poise is subordinate to raw emotion
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