This girl plays with her doll alone.  This room so cold, so faulted with the smell of coal. She lays between the chalk to bring them closer.  Even I can't even tell if this girl whole.  Half of her looks like smoke, disappearing playing hop-scotch on her toes.  She doesn't want to leave this place, like a ghost finding its home.  

Trying hard to not feel anything absent, she setups dinner plates and candles lights, and prays.  Yet her voice has no effect because it to is gone, lost with her soul.  Picture frames of a happy family, now torn and burnt from their home.  The walls ripped away, and doors that locked up dismay.  And the girl still prays, for something to replace the hole.  To go back and not burn alone.  

The air gets heavier, when i go downstairs to find the girl dead far from their hands to hold.  She protected her doll like it was her own.  Unscratched from head to toe.  Taking it feels like stealing, from a mother's womb.  And yet i think will everyone eventually find their way back home.  Or does every child lose it's way finding it's own.  This girl plays with her doll all alone.