She was not made to dry their eyes, when other people told them lies.
And yet she pressed her porcelain cheek to theirs, said "tears don't mean you're weak...
But know that strength will be your prize, and their mistakes will make you wise."
She was not made to soothe the heart that someone else had torn apart.
And yet she let them hold her tight, and drench her dress with tears at night.
She felt her own eyes fill and smart, each time she saw the nightmare start.
She was not made to sit alone - just because they had outgrown
The glass blue eyes, and lips: cerise. She slumped upon the mantelpiece.
T'was as she sat there, on her own (smiling slightly; thoughts: unknown)
A gust blew through the open door, and sent her tumbling to the floor.
Then: broken limbs; torn dress of lace; yet still a smile upon that face.
They stuffed her in an attic drawer. They didn't want her anymore.
She only slipped. She only fell.
My little baby Annabelle.
