I am
the porcelain doll
I had as a little girl: fair,
fragile and lifeless.

I exist
only in limbo;
between grey and black,
between fighting and releasing.

All of the mirrors
have turned into shattered frames.
Every picture
houses a strange woman
whose gaze I dare not meet.

At what point
do the haunted,
become the ghouls?        

This house
no longer feels a home,
just an orderly sanctuary
for a disorderly soul.
I am a prisoner
in a pretty palace,
in which I am self-imposed.          

Is there
a sadness so great,
it cannot be tamed?

And if
I should disintegrate
from this very spot, into ash?
I am not a phoenix I fear,
but a sparrow.