She was a patchwork of vivid emotions,
A doll beaten to strands by life,
A sally of myriad textile and colour,
An amalgamation of fashions both cultured and wild,
Frayed fabrics and split hairs,
A beautiful belle of an empty ball,

Her parts didn’t quite match up,
Squares of ruby silk and red flax,
Her soft pains and rough frustrations made manifest,
A leather hide covered some of her nape,
A hard exterior for some to cope with,
These sections were sewn loosely and with fickle method,

Blue velvet were her tears,
Her hands were bloody overworked gingham,
She had a fragile heart of cashmere,
Strewn atop a frail human mannequin,
She was not born as a clean slate,
But a patchwork soul of the cruel world she found herself in.

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