Gold Frame

A womanchild.
Ephemeral.
I think she used to be me,
Cavity of hope,
Harboring pulsating dreams.
 

How strange she looks.
A paperdoll her mother
Cut out,
Innocence full of doubt.
 

Someone crushed and
Threw her away.
She was lace –
I am leather.

© 2016 Sandra Fox Murphy. All rights reserved.

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