I was your marionette. You held my strings up so carefully that not even I could see they existed.
My wood was tarnishing and my hinges creaked with every movement. Everything about me was a sign of neglect. However, the show was to go on, and I had to keep on pretending that I was okay.
Was it for you?
No. I was selfish. It was me who wanted to be real; me who wanted so desperately to touch your face, but I couldn't. My fingers were dirty and splintered; they would mar you.
And then you wouldn't love me.
But then again, I suppose you never did. To you, I had no heart. I was a hollow shell you could fill with lies and empty promises.
If I caved under the pressure, you could have thrown me away. So I hid it from you.
But before it ended, you faltered. One false move, and my strings broke, one by one. It was the first time I had seen them.
I looked at my fingers. Instead of pine, they were flesh.
My eyes quickly darted to you. Now, I was real...! I reached out my hand to you, to feel you, to touch you...
They met first with a cold glare, and as I looked back, I saw a disappointed audience.
So I picked up my strings and I tied them tightly around my wrist to make you happy.
I'm sorry.