Hope I could've swung at the branch of the trees,
feeling the breeze of air
and sun's breath through my skin;
or ran along a field with my little feet--
along with an endless possibilities.

Could've held my little hand
and led me to the path my feet desired to be.
Yet your hands were bigger than mine;
for you are the creator,
And I am just the Adam you carved to escape your horror.

Maybe if you loosen the grip that's pressed so tightly,
and freed me from the chain of responsibilities
You coerced myself to be;

Maybe,
just maybe,
Could I swing at the branch of trees
and ran with my feet
and feel the breath of air
and sun's breath rushing through my skin,
and fulfill even the slightest possibility.

The night has ended,
And the dusk is stale.
A different dawn descended,
And the sun is shining pale.

There are some memories here,
Some more are hidden there.
I'm still lonely,
But I'd be lonelier
If not for my parents.

Now I work on my dream rate,
None was more appropriate.

I grew up the perfect child.
Seen but never heard.
Painfully aware of the mood in the room
And grew up way too soon.
Suppressed any hint of emotion
To make life easier for them.
And played the part of the perfect child
Receiving the bare minimum.

Strings dig into my wrists,
Carving control into fragile flesh
Moving me to their will.

I bend.
I spin.
I dance.

I despise it.

"Be this," she demands,
"Do that," he whispers,
Their voices tangle in the threads,
Pulling tighter, cutting deeper,
Moving me to their will.

I bend.
I spin.
I dance.

I loathe it

Moving my lips
The sighs
The whispers
The mutters
It isn't me.

Tugging my wrists
The twist
The tether
The weight
It isn’t me.

Bending my knees
The creak
The lurch
The stumble
It isn’t me.

Turning my head
The tilt
The ****
The blank stare
It isn’t me.

Carving my chest
The hollow
The knots
The splinters
It isn’t me.

Tearing my legs
The sway
The drag
The fall
It isn’t me.

I bend.
I spin.
I dance.

I hate it.

I'm just a hollow puppet.
Bound by twisted strings.

Nothing more
Nothing less.

The Liquitex that smudges my face
It draws new smiles,
It spills new tears,
Blurring the lines of who I was.

Each brushstroke rewrites my skin,
A hollowed mask of painted lies,
Cracks forming where the truth once lived.

It stains my cheeks in hues I don’t choose,
Bright reds that scream,
Deep blues that ache,
Colors bleeding into someone else’s story.

The varnish sets,
Am I trapped beneath it?
Just a mere doll of their design?

I bend.
I spin.
I dance.

I despise it.

And the fingers that type these words?
The letters
The sentences
The poem

It doesn't feel real.

A hollow shell of bone and sinew,
Moving without meaning,
Guided by unseen hands.

That's all I am.

I don't feel.
I don't love.
I don't dream.
I don't care.
I don't exist.

I bend.
I spin.
I dance.

I loathe it.

Mother,
You once loved my father’s face
You held it close to yours.
You brushed his cheeks with your lips
You embraced him with your entire heart
And now,
You despise my cheeks
Because they are his
You hate my smile
Because my teeth are the same shape as his
Did you ever hold me so close?
Mother,
Forgive me,
For what I couldn't control.
And Father,
You once protected my mother
You kept her close to you
You spent sunny days and rainy nights
By her side
But now, I can't recall your voice
Are my eyes really like yours?
Do I remind you of Mother?
Father,
Forgive me
For making you leave