Every day sitting atop the dusty shelf, porcine eyes glued in place as you stare blankly across the room. Children's feet pound the floor day in and day out as they run and play, with all but you. Your hair is a matted tangled mess, pulled half from your fair scalp. Body stiff as a board and soft smile cursing your lips as all you wish to do is die.

Long days, rough plays and sliding down the slides, dirt tainting fair skin and dress besmirched with grass stains. Hair a mess with teeth of comb jutting out here and there, body stiffly sticking out of the sand box. The soft smile on your lips hiding your weariness.

Tiny hands, hair bands, and delicate air tea, your dress is prime, though worn from the years you had put on. Talk of little girls troubles and ABC's. The soft smile to remind her you're listening.

Perfect hair, and rosy cheeks, ivory skin as fair as snow. Dress young and fine with out a stitch out of place. The silence of your shelf life being all you knew, then the pitter patter of a child’s feet. Small warm hands and a loving hug. The painted smile on your lips, for the first time becoming real.