A doll,

A doll on the shelf.

Sitting quietly,

Thinking to itself.

Porcelain skin,

Almond blue eyes,

Fingers so slim,

Not a surprise.

Crisp black hair,

With a peachy streak.

That same colour

That tints her cheek.

Compared to her face,

Her clothes seem ragged.

As if from a war

Her body they'd dragged.

A sweater plated with iron,

Some pants ringed with stones,

Her shoes sharp as teeth,

Her necklace of bones.

A look quite serene,

As if done with the war.

Her mind had found peace

On the shelves of this store.