Little Girl

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