They were broken children
Their scissored minds ran them
In spirals
Until they sat with crossed legs
And crossed lips
Trying to press themselves flatter
Under the paperweight of depression

They were cut-strings marionettes
Who danced
In an attempt to wring calories
From their balsa-wood bones
Which refused to give
And who pinned their painted smiles
A little tighter each morning

They were snapped-spines picture books
Who’d been warped too far by society
And had had their pages torn from the crease
So that words hung like razor blades
And spliced from each vertebra

They took them to the circus
Where they were the butt of every joke
But when the clowns speared them with dripping eyes
And artificial mouths that stretched over grimaces
Like dust-jackets from a different story
They stared back glassily
Because how can you be afraid
Of the broken clockwork of your reflection?