I have tied heart strings around my neck and hoped the blurred vision of my somewhat self destructive nature would take away the optic curses that disallow me to see what I cannot heal.
Sharpened question marks hook into the aged rings in my flesh. Left out for too long; forgotten. He tries not to cry as suspended interrogatives pull at limbs and hang body over a myriad of "who?" or "why?" (I forget which).
I am both the antique puppet and the incandescent hole in the puppet master's chest, taught to love my wooden creators and fall in love with anything that helps me forget about the skeletons within my bloodstream. Pull my strings. Watch me come undone.