Broken Doll

I was a pretty baby,
that’s what Mummy used to say.
Proudly she displayed me,
safely locked in the glass menagerie.


I was a pretty girl,
that’s what Mummy used to say.
With ribbons and bows she dressed me up,
but I wasn’t allowed out of the box.


I was a pretty lady,
that’s what Mummy used to say.
Even when squeezing my too thin body,
whispering praises and stroking my messy hair.


But I wasn’t a pretty woman :
bloody lips on a too pale face,
a weary mind ; a too tiring life,
I just wanted to lie and close my eyes.


How could Mummy fail to notice,
that the pieces that held me were falling apart?
Pretty is all she needed me to be,
so pretty is all she had chosen to see.