Rag Doll

Torn.
The pieces scattered wherever.
And now it's unable
To tell what they once were.

Each it's own story.
What was once her heart, now broken.
What was once her face, now stained with tears.
What was once her smile, now fallen.

Her scars apparent,
She is scattered.
Where are they?
Is she still herself?

The stitches are weak.
Barely able to contain her.
Barely,
As the attempt is made.

Some of her is still the same,
Just inside out
Or maybe with a new color.
But it is the same.

This newness, it helps.
The new color brings new joy
That evens with her old swatches.
Yet the stitches tremble.

To those made of porcelain,
With those perfect china faces,
She is some strange alien.
Random, zombie-like creature.

She has been made a new person.
A mix
Of her former self
And this new being.

Perfect.
In their packs.
With their rosy faces
And baby blue eyes.

She still stands alone.
The zombie,
The alien,
The mess of rags.

Button eyes
To see past the guises.
Stitches that
Can hardly keep her together.