Marionette
Every morning, 4:30 PM,
you crawl down to the playroom
and crouch by your dollhouse.
I slouch between two China kitchen chairs,
head lolling, eyes rolling,
heart a hollow pool of wood.
I cannot tell you to stop,
because my vocal cords are clipped like the yarn on my head.
No matter if I want to leave,
because no toy belongs in a world of toddlers.
So I string myself back to these things draping from your claws and dangling like puppet strings.
I’m your little marionette.
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