The Feelings of a Puppet
Here I am, sitting quietly and obediently. I make no movement. Not like I could on my own. My body is attached to strings, strings that you dare control me with. You think you're so powerful, making me dance beneath your fingers like I can't feel, like I'm your slave. Like when you made my silk robes flutter around my thin and frail structure. Moving your fingers as a fish in water, you make my feet skim the floor. You make me move my arms sensually, you sick, sick bastard.
Sometimes I wish I could cry a stream of light blue, or just let the paint roll off my smooth wooden cheeks onto the cool, marble floor. Will you then realize that I do not wish to be controlled by your fingers? That I wish to be cut free from the strings that bind myself to you? I suppose that you never will.
Why do you look at me with that sick smile that paints your sardonic face? Why do you brush your grubby fingers through my blonde, silky hair? You have no right, eve though you do own me. I wish I could change my expression from fake happiness to boiling anger. Make my painted rose pink lips curl back in hate. Make my soft lavender eyes squint in a burning glare. Or perhaps frustration? Either one would work for me. But at the moment, I don't think it should matter because I'm still attached to these silver strings. And you still control me, with your grubby hands.
How I wish I wasn't this doll, this puppet. I wish to dance without being forced. I yearn to let my feelings be expressed – to be set free. That is what I yearn for the most. Yet I suppose that, too, you shall never understand.