Placed, gently into this little teenie tiny salmon room when I was seven. Was I seven? Maybe seventeen now. Never twenty seven though...I don't think.

I'm pristine to them, flawless. I play. Innocence is my virtue. I know no better. They adore me. Pirouetting in my pink flush. Never the lush, until I was legal. They like it when I'm merry now. Vulnerable and a tad silly.

Fuss, fuss, fuss immaculate conception? I do the taught dance they love so much. Around, around. I gather their applause. Bow. And bow again. Oh how I am treasured. Thank you, thank you. Thank you so much.

"Again" the silhouette growled, unhinged in the doorway.

He is the one. I know. They reluctantly agree. This is it. Sale? Betrayal? I'm going to be boxed up with a pretty little pink ribbon. I hope he doesn't like daily performances. I ain't no Baby Jane...am I?

Am I?

Follow up http://www.wattpad.com/33233831-poetry-image-or-reality Written by a beautiful poet. Lovely Umber =) @think_done