They dressed me in whispers, in silken deceit,
Painted my face with a love incomplete.
A puppet, they called me, a doll made of glass,
Shaped by their hands, by a past I surpassed.

They spoke with conviction, their tongues laced with gold,
Took what they wanted and left me in the cold.
A prize on a shelf, a mirror of need,
Fed on control while I learned how to bleed.

But cracks tell a story, and glass learns to shatter,
Chains lose their strength when the soul grows much flatter.
I gathered the pieces and stitched them with flame,
No longer their object, no longer their gain.

Now when I speak, my voice shakes the air,
No longer a whisper, but truth laid out bare.
They see me, they fear me; no longer confined,
For I am not theirs, I am finally mine.

© fey (13/02/25)