She is nothing.

You would only look twice because of the

Sheer incongruity

The brokenness

When you expect your world to be

Rose colored

She is smudged, old

Where you expect shiny newness

Crisp packaged novelty

But what if I told you

Once she was something

Roughly loved, held, dragged

Through the dirt

By lovingly crafted porcelain arms

Not molded but crafted

Hand-painted

Clothing stitched with care

Would she be worth more than

Pressed plastic, machine turned

Assembly line impersonality

But this is not the way now

We crave more

At the calloused hands of faceless workers

Children in warehouses

Making pennies a day

What love can they craft with?

She is forgotten

But it is not too late

Maybe

She has not yet crumbled into dust