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For a little girl.
Thatí»s what they were like.
I held them and shaped them
In my hand
Delicate 4-line poetry
In a maze of incoherent words.
See the blood spill like rain
As her inner screams deflect off
Cord snaked by rough hands around a small, pale, swanlike neck
She dances on tape like a butterfly across
Under a clownlike mask of foundation
Baring half-naked her superficial 6-year-old
Like stones from the crowns placed upon their heads
And in the end,
Poised beauty was reduced to a stiff pale corpse
Clad in a white ballerina dress.