She Is...

She is a doll with a face of porcelain white
Has a lovely bowtie smile so contrite
She hates the monster hiding beneath the bed
And prefers the one in the closet instead

She is a queen with thorns in her crown
Cobwebs hide in the folds of her gown
She wears plastic rings on each of her fingers
Past beauty and grandeur only faintly lingers

She is a writer without ink or quill
Her gift is such a bittersweet pill
She writes in blood upon her own skin
In effort to calm the demons within

She is a corpse without a crypt
Lived a life with such a tragic script
She has no headstone to mark her grave
Thought herself a queen but died a knave