Marionette
Your little puppet on strings. Hanging on to your every word like a child. You control my movements like a master. Like you've done my entire life. The only difference now is that the strings are harder to see.
You made me believe I was free. That I had a choice; the option to heal, to forgive. How was I to know that you would pull my strings back harder than ever the first step I take outside of your little box?
I've seen the consequences of fighting to cut the strings, the aftermath for those who left. They tell me I can do it too. They throw me the scissors and scream at me to pick them up. But how do I? How can I? When all I know, is to pity the puppet master that holds my strings?
Pity? Love? Manipulation? When did these words become interchangeable?
YOU ARE READING
Snippets
Short StorySnippets from books I'll never write because I know I can't do them justice.
