I was once a faceless doll,
clean and concealed.
I remained that way for a time
'til curiosity caused my new form to be revealed.

At first my face was plain.
I was content and free,
but curiosity was not the only artist,
you see.

They seamed in their stitches
and drew upon my face.
I was new yet again,
changing with an unbelievable pace.

They said I was no longer just a copy
but unique and enviable.
But was I not formed from their desires,
an image which their liking could resemble?

Were these thoughts even mine to own?
I wish I could be that faceless doll once more,
but I am ragged and marked now,
though their drawings have not soiled my core.