I used to think I was the luckiest little girl.
Everybody adored me so much,; why else would I be sitting on the shelf among other little treasures: jewelry, crystalline figurines, and ornaments? Our house was a hive, busy with banter and buzzing. It enwreathed, nurtured, and cultivated me.
New gowns would be specially stitched with spun gold, melted until it fused together plates of my porcelain face –; I’d never have to leave.

I grew older, and the shelf grew a tad dull. Whatever family I had (after all, I was never gifted with siblings to share my plinth with. Why make something new if the first was perfectly adequate, after all?adequate? I can certainly respect that) would move on. My mouth, stitched at the corners, was pulled, although laced fingers never moved as I willed. My stiffened figure was heaved from that shelf; a puppeteer’s hand dragged me from side to side. A practiced, cautious tone rang within my empty cavity, and a clockwork heart ticked. Metal frames encompassed the little I had left, preserving my corpse behind rose-tinted glass.

I knew not to complain. Nobody loves a whiny little girl; men want a wife, not a daughter. Jewelry, figures, and ornaments became trophies: statues, medals, accolades. I was his best, his ‘grand prize’"grand prize". Prettier than a medal, although with the unfortunate habit of being louder than one. ‘Don’t"Don’t waste your gorgeous lips on words, my dear. All I long for is your darling smile, like radiant yet gentle sunlight, my dear’dear." Soured lips curled into thin needles, stabbing my wooden body; further spiraling the spider-silk thread around my neck until thick, crimson gore sprawled down like a felled tree. Branches whipped and entwined. Stains soaked my body, skin, organs, and mask.

When he is not home, my hands instinctively reach for the mask of my own face. Pain feels grounding, cracks. Cracks spread like fissures, overwhelming, mauling. Soft flesh reminds me of my humanity,: of the bones, nerves, the hatred that seeps, scorns, and sears. My hope, my clockwork heart, and now I feel as it ticks, andtick as I breathe in and out. The sweet ring of heaven’s bell beckons closer. Lo, now look at my body. Glow vanquished, the ventriloquist’s words supersede mine. A rich woman isn’t independent, and that I know. My facadefaçade, my face, plated in gold and torn down. Soft lips painted rosy red, wired hair strung.
Burning bright, burning with desire of many before myself,; and I feel it. Burning black, burning hope, burning up everything.

I am not a daughter.
Holding the mask above me, little spindles of light peek through the marionette’s teeth. They whisper how I am such a good girl, but the lace on my neck doesn’t loosen. Grasping and scratching, I feel it separate,; porcelain shatters, and it doesn’t stop. I continue sinking, clothes ripping, mincing around me, and my strings begin to fray and rupture.
One last string, until suddenly the room goes blackenedblack, and my arms are nailed to the shelf.

It seems I couldn’t be anything more than a simple puppet. Nailed against the shelf, lace tightened to a noose. Still, my husband will look at me, he will forgive me. I will bear his children, his sons, and they shall grow into strong men. Still, I sit like fine porcelain, with polished ball-jointsball joints, hair brushed, face tidied, and ever silent.