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
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
For she is now a forgotten plaything on the shelf,
Ever emotionless, numb.
Unloved and unloving.
Though her flawless rosebud pout remains lifeless,
she seems to whisper,
"I am what you will become."