Controlled

I am like a puppet, being controlled by the inevitable.

My every move, being decided by someone whom

my heart has sprouted a deep seed of hatred for.

This someone controls me with strings for I am a marionette with threads of cotton attached to every single one of my limbs.

The strings travel through the air, down to my scarred body, taking control of my lovely bones.

My wounded body begins to break.

I begin to wish for my painful puppet show to end.

I long for the time when I can become my own puppet master.

Often, I see people venture into my depressing puppet show,

these people tend to be oblivious to the scars on my arms,

to the emptiness in my eyes, and the sadness behind my words.

Every once in a while I attempt to execute the strings connecting the master and me.

But, I never can,

because no matter how hard I try,

no matter how far away I run, the puppet master is always there.

Always watching.

Always fixated on hurting me.

So, instead of the string,

I slit my throat.

Now there is no puppet to control.