Sweet Sixteen

Sixteen years leading to this.
A strike of the clock,
  blood seeps as the hands
  scramble for six,

The hour I'll be blessed
  with a bath and a dress,
Sold to those who want 
  to break my bones.

Who am I to decide?
My fate was already laid out,
  like my skin had been stripped 
  and turned into a map.

Sweet sixteen. Innocent, I've never been.
Who will pull me from 
  the steaming, striking wreckage 
  of the clock tower?

I lie in wait, my life held,
  cradled in the unforgiving hands
  of Fate,
  as the looking glass shatters and breaks.