She's been putting on her dress Her drawer of lace and bows Next to her wooden, girlish bed Is locked so no one knows The rusted blades and crumble cake Her matted combs and dolls The ones she kept from childhood From Dad who never calls
She's been sifting through her teeth Bloodied, baby, small The ones she ripped right from her mouth A box contains them all
She kept them to remember what it felt like to be weak They rattle like maracas When the wooden bed will creak She stares up at the chipping mould Her world is small and always cold She wonders why you didn't call Or if you cared at all
The answer lies in pillow stains Soiled linens, window panes Mildew spreads across the post The ones she clings on tight Dirtying her tiny hands for yet another night
As she washes all her sins Right down the bathroom sink She longs for night to take her in So she won't have to think