Her body 
and soul
don’t reside inside that porcelain.
Each artfully rendered rose
pales in comparison to the 
shoddy red dye mingled amongst 
her frizzy grays.
Every identical scalloped edge 
seems too perfect next to the crags 
and lumps of her elbows. 
The tranquil well 
is nothing compared to the 
sandpaper of her face
brushing against your own. 
She’s not precious.
She’s a tattered old housecoat,
hand stitched,
nicotine stained. 
She’s a house slipper,
faded and worn.
She aint porcelain,
she aint gold leaf,
she aint glaze.