the strings that constrain me
are the strings that hold me up.
and i am forever chained to this wooden skeleton,
with a tangle of strings
hanging like a noose around my neck
and handcuffs around my wrists.
lift a finger,
make us dance,
make us fall.
it doesn’t matter.

because the puppeteers always know best, don’t they?
they weigh the odds.
they hold the weight of our lives
on their fingertips.
they sense every flicker of movement—
the slightest inhale,
the lightest exhale.
it is the puppeteer’s job
to weigh the consequences and,
with good intentions,
fasten the noose around our necks
and lift.

and so, on we go.
dancing.
        dancing.
               dancing.
to the melody of our empty lives;
ever-dependent on the fickleness of our maker's fingers
and the hope that our strings
please do break.