The puppet is lifted from its amber-colored box
Strings entwine with joints raising from limp repose
I used to be choreographed by the expectation of normalcy
I could not trust myself
to speak straight
to act straight
to love straight

Faceless puppeteer make me metamorphose
not from a caterpillar to a butterfly
but the other way around
not from a puppet to a real human
but the other way around
The strings directed each limb
From the pitch of my voice
to the posture of my hip
If you look closely
you can see them everywhere

An act of ventriloquism
Speak the words of another
Act the behaviors of another
Hide in plain sight
Behind wooden armature jaw
Because if I am honest
If I am true
What if they don’t like who I am?

Now I choreograph myself
I don't need to be told
how to speak
how to act
how to love
Because the lies have become instinct
And while the strings still exist
They’ve become practically invisible

The puppet is lifted from its amber-colored box
Strings entwine with joints raising from limp repose
I used to be choreographed by the expectation of normalcy
Speak. Think. Act.
What would happen if the strings were cut?