She is a porcelain doll
with her pretty face painted a white
that reminds you of lilies and of virgin snow
and tonight,
in your admiration and your adoration,
you will only notice her perfectly painted smile
and her blue eyes wide with an innocence
you've never seen anywhere before
except now in this playroom dollhouse -
this carefully-crafted perfect world
of someone else's imagination
with no place for you.


You will stand and stare
at her diaphanous dress of gold,
at her rich ebony hair framing her
charming heart-shaped face
and you will think only of
angels and fairies
and that evanescent beauty of youth.


You will not think
of her fragile porcelain body
or of the cracks that run underneath
or how a single blow will shatter
this illusory perfection
to reveal an empty hollow,
a cavern for a heart.


Because you still cling
to your childhood beliefs
of pretty princesses
who get their happily-ever-afters
and the last thing you want
is for reality to shatter
this only remaining refuge from the truth.


(This is what they call hope-
this perversion of the truth,
this silent refusal to look again,
for the fear of what you’ll find
when you take a closer look.)