No Longer The Hollow Doll


No Longer The Hollow Doll

She is no longer the hollow doll that sat upon her shelf. Those tired eyes that caved with empty darkness no longer curse her. She sits no more lonely in the corners of her room. Fidgeting at the strands of her hair.

She now lathers her mane in the warmth of water and wondrous grace of castile. Her eyes glow with the brilliance of candy apple green. Her lips coated now in the blush of red. She wears her shoulders with confidence. Her chest swells with wind as each breath is inhaled with courage, as well as exhaled in spirit.

Her skin is no longer the complexion of a paled witch. Nor does it flake of the dead as if to be the home of the deceased. It no longer crawls with irritation of pestering itch. It holds now an amber haze, it glistens in under the sun as it is kissed by rain. It lives upon her as if she is held by a god of bronze.

Her walk no longer swamped in the eager thoughts of meekness. Her strides reach with perfect poise. Each step peels with elegance as if she were a dancing swan. Her legs bend in the flawless rhythm of  artistry.

She is no longer the tearful heart that broke. She is no longer the stretched agony that burrowed her soul to hell. She is no longer the rotten thoughts of the grotesque that once poised themselves as her.

Murdering her mere action to smile, as if she was deserving of no such thing. Severing what little happiness she held behind her closed walls. Masquerading the streets of her anxious mind.

Painting her once whimsical existence to the colors of the depressive, dressing her to the rancid hues of mortification. Feeding her the artificial sustenance of desolation. Reaping her soul for the very wishes of the mad, of the spiteful.

But she is no longer the hollow doll that sat upon her shelf. She is now the lover of smiles, of laughter and life. She wakes with the joy of  heart. Grasping to every breath as if her last. Living in the wells of growth, cultivating her energy as if it to be a garden. She seasons each moment with great endurance and passion.

For she had found a needle and thread, and saved herself.
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Thank you so much for reading, hope you enjoyed it! 

Do you believe it's up to ourselves, to save ourselves from sorrow?

If you wish for more poetic flavors, A Man's Traveled Heart
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