Triggers: implications to body dysformia, abuse, anxiety, and self harm

A porcelain doll sits atop the mantle, her skin delicate, pale glass. Her face painted as perfectly as the sun paints the sky.

She is flawless. She is just what she was meant to be; perfection. She is the prized possession of her maker, paraded for all to see.

But heaven forbid anyone see her whole. Hide the cracks, the chips, the scuffs. You are meant to be seen for your perfection, the prettiest thing money can buy.

Don't tell them what you know, little doll. Don't tell them how many times you've been repainted or reglued because your master got upset. Don't tell them you were thrown to the ground in anger because of your trivial imperfections.

You gave me my scars, you puppeteered my hands, whispering that this was what I was meant to do, and then punish me for making the cuts. Why?

The games her master plays fasten the lid of Pandora's box. It's not a prison if he doesn't say it is, just like the torn hem of her daffodil dress wouldn't be a flaw if not for her master ordering to be.

What you don't tell them is once the yellow bow of deceit is unraveled from around her waist, she falls apart and is told to pick up the pieces of herself while she's trapped behind the picket fence that is her own mind.

The fence could have a gate, if only her master would swallow his pride and admit he broke it in the first place. Instead, a porcelain doll sits on the mantle. Her skin is delicate, pale glass. She is the perfection her master wants her to be, but only from an angle. 

*A/N More slam poetry! Meant to be heard through spoken word, not read necessarily. I know this was a dark one... sorry? XD I'm messed up in the old noggin.*