He is the puppeteer
And I am his Pinocchio.
A toy crafted with robust hands
And liquored wood.
My veins filled with poison,
I was dressed in lies
Spun like silk
And weaved into obscurity.

The puppeteer painted my face
To his liking,
Molding imperfections into perfections.
And being a controlled object I cannot protest,
As his paintbrush rolls from his hand
Black ink spilling my insecurities across the floor
And I am set to dry.

And Action!
His husky fingertips
Pull and yank at my strings,
Jerk me from side to side.
Limiting my potential.
Manipulating my character.
Isolation is a long shiny knife,
Impaling my wooden exterior,
As if it were paper.

I am warm putty in cruel hands
My body is wrenched out like a damp washcloth
And I am filled back up again with an ocean of uncertainty
And desperation.
Glassy blue water
Swirling, churning, twirling, chasms
Of desolation.
But the show must go on.

Pinocchio! Pinocchio!
A human bound with string
That never leaves the hands of its creator
Eternal suffering.
I try to jump, I try to fly,
Begging to escape this cell.
But he yanks on his vindictive thread,
And I know I am compelled.

Encore! Encore!
The audience wants more.
More string twisting
Chain pulling
Of the tortured toy.
For he is the puppeteer
And I’m his Pinocchio.
He built me to use me
It’s all part of his show.