A bubble surrounds her, keeping apart her dreams from the reality of everything. She's been thrown to the lions who don't hesitate in ripping her warm flesh with the claws she never feared (because how can she see the threat in them, when her eyes are covered by a silk handkerchief she embroidered?)

Porcelain might break in her hands, making the tender skin rupture and bleed. She never feels, never fears. The song of a mockingbird stopping the sound of the broken chandelier that never lit up her world (because the only light came and went with wild, green fire that left her vulnerable and unprotected.)

The poor little lady thinks she can fly, but little birds have weak wings made of gold and ivory. She can't fly with those, and when the Moon is a bit too close and she feels the wind hits her face she hopes for the best (because she hasn't learned that wind only means death, never flight, never freedom and never life.)

Only when steel is on her hands, when the needle takes the thread and begins creation, does she remember who she is. But in the middle of those memories she starts to lose herself again; she sheds tears and becomes someone else (because having her name is a dangerous affair, and the steel has not been tempered enough.)

For the Freeverse Poetry Boot Camp of the Poetry Craze Forum. Prompt used: bubble.