By Silver Sailor Ganymede
The doll sits upon her shelf, its eyes shining in the sunlight yet still somehow dead, souless. Its blonde curls are perfect, as is its porcelein skin; it's dress forever that of a child. It is perfect as it sits there, forever in its childhood form, but she hates it. She has always hated the doll.
She cannot stand the way it sits there, so innocent yet so mocking at the same time. It torments her, the doll and its young form; it is a reminder to her of what she must forever suffer. She is still in the form of a child, her eternal youth not the gift that most would percive it to be but a curse of the worst kind.
She will forever be in the form of a young girl, and because of that no one acknowledges that her mind has matured even though her body will not. They still see her as an innocent, a perfect child; a fragile doll that would break if touched. She hates that they see her that way: she is not perfect and knows she never will be. She is not a doll.
She knocks the doll from the shelf and it lyes on her floor with unseeing glass eyes. The doll is no longer perfect; it is broken.