Doll

I'm never good at titles, so do tell me if you can think of something better!
This is something I wrote for a poetry competition that my aunt has decided I should enter, which is in June. It's very rare that I show my poems to my family, so this was written very carefully as something that I could.

The eyes were blue,
Tired, worn,
Dead, dull,
But bright against the faded skin
Of the head, which lay
A foot from the plastic neck.
The red plaid dress,
Torn, burnt,
Threads tangled, knotted
In the matted polyester hair.

She likes to think she can see sadness
In the eyes of the doll,
But she's imagining it,
Like the she's imagining
The desperate way the fingers
Seem to grasp at the fabric of the dress,
And the flicker of a smile
On the cracked painted lips.

She looks at the doll,
And sees the fire that destroyed
Her childhood;
The memories of
A six year old girl
And the doll in the red dress-
Birthday present turned best friend-
As she watched it all burn,
The smell of acid heavy in the air.

She picks up the doll
(the head, the body, and the broken limbs),
And cradles it to her,
Smelling the acid that lingers on the clothes,
Whispering into the filthy hair,
Stroking the burnt face,
And smoothing down the creases
In what was once a little red dress.