The puppeteer
I do not know
when these strings were sewn.
Perhaps they found me in my sleep.
Perhaps they grew
where bones once knew
the quiet they were meant to keep.
They laced themselves
through skin and vein,
through every splinter, every stain.
They stitched my wrists,
they bound my knees,
They learned the rhythm
of my pleas.
Some mornings,
they loosen.
The knots untwine.
The stage is washed
in golden shine.
I walk with steps
that almost feel
As though they’re mine.
The curtains breathe.
The lights burn low.
A gentle hush
begins to grow.
I laugh so freely,
soft and bright,
I almost trusted
the borrowed light.
The audience smiles.
They clap.
They cheer.
They say,
“You’ve never looked more alive, my dear.”
But none of them
have raised their eyes
To where unseen
the puppeteer hides.
Then…
The silence snaps.
The strings grow tight.
My spine is bent
against the light.
My shoulders wrench.
My voice will boom
Like wilted flowers
forced too soon.
I spin.
I bow.
I leap.
I fall.
I cannot tell
which voice will call.
The splintered stage
begins to shake,
Yet still I’m made
to bend and break.
The strings cut deep.
They carve.
They burn.
My wooden joints
begin to turn.
Until each movement,
wild and grand,
Feels less like grace…
More like command.
The crowd erupts.
They rise as one.
They praise the pain
that I’ve become.
They never see
the trembling thread.
They never heard
the things unsaid.
How strange,
To earn applause
For wounds disguised
as standing ovations.
Then…
Nothing.
No tug.
No pull.
No hand.
My body crumples
where I stand.
My knees collide
with weathered pine.
The people ask,
“Why aren’t you fine?”
Dust settles gently
on my face,
As silence fills
the empty space.
The crowd grows restless.
“Stand once more!.”
“You’ve danced like this once before!”
“Why won’t you move?”
“What’s changed today?”
They do not know
The hands…
Have turned there face.
And so I wait.
Not out of hope.
Not out of fear.
But because stillness
feels more familiar
than freedom here.
The strings remain.
Though no one pulls,
They sway like ghosts
through hollow halls.
Sometimes they tighten
without a sound.
Sometimes they kiss
the splintered ground.
Sometimes I swear
I feel them breathe,
As if they know
I’ll never leave.
Then comes the question
I fear the most,
The one that lingers
like a ghost.
If every thread
were cut away,
Who would remain
upon this stage?
Would I still laugh?
Would I still cry?
Would I still lift
my weary eyes?
Or have I worn
these strings so long
I’ve learned to call them
flesh and bone?
Perhaps they’ve rooted
through my spine,
Until their pulse,
confused
with mine?
Perhaps the strings
are not around.
Because they’re woven
through me now.
If someone severed
every cord,
Would I collapse
upon the boards?
Not because
I wished to fall…
But because I never learned
Which movements
Were ever mine at all.
