It's Still Life

Slips

It’s all so odd, they thought,
as if I were
wasted scenery.
Their failed passion.
I was scuttled there for a while,
my own narrative movement,
and they looked at me
like a foreign religion.
You find that there’s
nowhere to hide
in an array of silence,
like when Mum hid away all my dolls,
for their safekeeping,
my mind hid away
like a doll in a box,
but you have to treat yourself
with tender seriousness
because machinery occasionally
slips its gears.

for Miz Quickly: Write a poem from the bottom up, starting with the last line.