the strings aren't made of rope.
they are spun from the times you said i’m here
and the times i believed that if i let go,
the gravity of the room would finally break you.
so i stand where you need me to stand.
i raise my arms when the shadow falls.
every day, i feel the wood grain
creeping up my wrists.
each time your world catches fire,
i am the bucket, the water, the stone floor—
whatever it takes to catch the ash,
until my fingers forget how to hold anything
that belongs only to me.
you look at me and see a savior.
you look at me and see a wall that doesn't crack.
but i am becoming less human with every hour.
i am losing the frequency of my own voice,
trading my syllables for the ones
that keep your balance steady on the wire.
the puppet stands back at the table, its hands
no longer mine to command.
the wood of its fingers clicks against the rind
as it peels another sphere of gold for you,
the stinging spray hitting its face,
but the paint on its cheeks is too thick to feel the burn.
it is a doll mimicking the gesture of love.
it is a vessel for the things you cannot carry.
you pour the bitter, stinging juice into its chest
until the pulp reaches its throat,
and it is not allowed to choke.
if it bleeds,
it is proof that it is abandoning you.
if it hurts,
it is a weapon you turn on yourself
until it is the one begging for forgiveness
for having skin at all.
so it lets you pull the threads tight.
because the alternative is a ghost
it is too terrified to carry in its sleep.
it lets the paint chip.
it lets the joints stiffen.
i watch the orange rot from above the room,
and for a second, i envy the fruit.
at least the fruit is allowed to fall apart.
at least the fruit doesn't have to keep its crust still
while the kitchen burns down around it.
the puppet is trapped in the script you wrote,
where its only choice is to stay or be the killer.
if it steps away from the table to catch its breath,
you look at the scissors in your hand
and tell it the blade is its choice.
you've written its name into the margins of your survival
so deeply that if you drop, the ink will stain its wood forever.
i am holding my breath because your gravity is a trap.
if you shatter, the world will look at the wooden doll
and ask why it didn't catch the pieces.
they will see the gold juice on its fingers
and call it blood.
they will look at the empty chair to its right
and say its own hand pulled your thread.
i stand at the table, perfectly still,
a wooden thing doing the heavy lifting,
wondering how much of myself i have to give away
before there is nothing left of the girl
who used to love the gold.