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.
