I am not your marionette doll
with fine string binding my limbs
and wooden joints that creak painfully.
There is no invisible hand of yours above my head
controlling my every action,
walking me through endless stages
while my painted eyes gaze vacantly at the world.
You cannot cram me into a dusty box
when the show is over
and the day has passed
and leave me there until you see fit to need me again.
Because long ago,
with a glinting knife,
I cut the strings that everyone thought I could not
live without
and I stood up
and watched as the grimy wood
peeled away from my tender skin.
I blinked my painted eyes for the first time
and saw that the world is beautiful
once more.