Mary is the Velveteen Rabbit,
Made real by love, worn in places.
She is not a toy, shut away in a box,
With unblinking eyes
And perfect unchanged white cotton insides.
Mary is Pinocchio, at the end of the story.
With flesh on her bones.
And feet that take her where she wants to go.
She is not wooden sticks
Controlled by strings.
Put away on a shelf,
Behind glass,
That I must push my face against.
Mary has a soft belly
And stretch marks.
Mary does not have
A whitewashed body.
Her scars show.
My scars show.
Mary is the Velveteen Rabbit.
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