not theirs

they

would get into my car and tell me to 

drive 

expecting me to take them somewhere

in the opposite direction of where i had been 

trying to go.

i didn't know how to say

no.

they

would tell me to stay quiet

after sucker-punching me in the spirit

kicking me to the ground and crumpling

all my looped-cursive dreams 

until they were all wrinkles and folds,

indecipherable and blurred

only paper left to hold.

they

would act as adoring fans 

and then transform into wolves

right in front of my eyes,

blaring sharp teeth that threatened to 

rip apart my reputation and my writing,
my relationships and my reflections

all at once.

i was not prepared for the 

whiplash,

the brutality,

the pretend friends turning into

enemies.

i was 

a chauffeur

a wallflower

a punching bag

a pig for slaughter

a toy

an item

a game

a pet

a target

a puppet.

for so long

i was

their's.

but now

i am

mine.