There's a little girl sitting on my shelf. She holds her hands loose in her lap and sits with her head on one side, contemplating the world. She does not say much, in fact she says very little, but her eyes gather in all that passes her and she thinks and she thinks and she thinks. She is unsullied, this girl. Maybe one day she will open those blue eyes of hers after a period of quiet and realize her hands are callused and cold and her brow is creased and her mouth is turned down just that little bit at the corners. Then she will realize her age.
But until then, she is still perfect. Naive, unique, quaint. Like a butterfly she perches on the edge of her seat, eager for learning and experience, and yet when it comes, will she welcome it? When it's drawn its patterns on her skin and left its mark on her pupils and traced its stain over her veins, will she still crave the excitement of the new?
She doesn't know how easy it is for her now, to view the world with unprejudiced eyes. She is safe and content in the little knowledge she has. When the moment comes that makes her reach for something she does not understand, or need, or should have, will that moment change her? Will the action of taking add its impression to that flawless body? A slight kink to the eyes, a crookedness of the fingers, a notch in those perfect little toenails? Will the sullied blotch on her soul show on her face? How many times of taking possession does it take before the dirt sucks the brightness out of her and patches up the livid, pulsing red?
There's a little girl sitting on my shelf. She holds her hands loose in her lap and sits with her head on one side, contemplating the world. She not perfect. Already the greed and desire is pouting her lips and tightening the clasp her hunger has on the world. It only takes one moment to change who she is. The moment she takes what she desires and uses it until it is exhausted and wanted no more.
And she takes, and she takes, and she takes.