Dolls

Cut my grosgrain ribbons
With bloody rusty scissors
While Mama cried and yelled
As if her little girl
Was abandoning all
Hopes and dreams
Of an upbringing
Anything less than dramatic
A box of matches
Set alight in flight
Softer than grosgrain
Spun around lies
Dress them up as
Little dolls so no one
Sees the broken hearts
Rotting inside the illusions
I grew weary of one day
And I cut my ribbons
With scissors rusted by
My own blood