It wasn’t an imagination, the black porcelain doll still living; unmasked, showing it day to day.
People might treat me like an outcast, something morbid, fake, superficial a non-reality
I’m not that person not an outcast but someone real now dealing with racial, social and gender prejudices, now a sacrifice that’s destined.
I’m in a middle of a transition, emotions going through my soul and body, physically changing, breaking down an old mosaic putting new one in place.
I’m the doll in the crystal dome, warped in pink, softly thinking. Now watching as new colors reveal it self day to day.