The scratching became a tapping,
that soon became a crying,
I heard the voice inside me,
in my bedroom down below.
‘Mice,’ said my mother, clucking,
so my father got to trapping,
and I waited for the screaming,
in my bedroom down below.
A doll found silent sitting,
like the bride forever waiting,
they called for me to see her,
from my bedroom down below.
‘Your Grandmother’s’ they said, smiling,
of the doll so old and fraying,
and they put her in my wardrobe,
in my bedroom down below.
In the photo her eyes were pitying,
‘Died young,’ the words so moving,
so I’d stare at her and wonder,
in my bedroom down below.
Her hair seemed to be greying,
her skin was thick and wrinkling,
the doll just kept on aging,
in my bedroom down below.
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