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