Floating back to the scent of

cigarette smoke, not entirely unpleasant

because it reminds me of Christmas presents

unwrapped in haste a little too early.

Clothes soaked in the that smell,

that stench as some feel.

Back to the days of glittering gowns

and an exquisite little

porcelain doll.

Irish, the plastic proclaimed in gold slanting letters,

a doll in a tiny green dress, with freckles

on her perfect nose, and red-gold ringlets

framing her cream face.

And a distracting note attached to her box,

"She looks just like you."

Well, I look now

into her cold glass gray blue eyes.

She stares back, accusing

from behind her see through wall

her prison.

For she is now a forgotten plaything on the shelf,

collecting dust.

Ever emotionless, numb.

Unloved and unloving.

Though her flawless rosebud pout remains lifeless,

she seems to whisper,

"I am what you will become."