The littlest doe, doe-eyed, Jane Doe. I want to paint your nails, red, but not the red that stains your cream-colored knit sweater I want to play dollhouse with you, but not the moldy, brutal mildewed house whose basement you were found. I want to comb your hair, your beautiful hair, I can only imagine it was smooth as a spider web, but only those insects know where your face is now, as that was missing when they found you there
