Puppet on a String

Strings. Pulling her which way He wants,
She is His puppet on a string.
She breathes only when He’s around,
For He’s her Master—that’s the thing.

He gave her colour, shape, and life,
She dances to His music. She
Is just a piece of wood otherwise,
Lifeless—awaiting to be pulled.

The strings He made cut deep, deep wounds,
Leaving their mark on her, so that
She always knows she cannot choose
To free herself. He owns her. Scars.

She’s there to please Him, otherwise
She’s put away in her own box,
The cage she only knows to despise,
Awaiting His life-giving touch.

He gave her meaning, gave her life,
Yet she has never learned to breathe,
She suffocates under His touch,
She is alive, yet hasn’t lived.

She rots away inside her box,
Not daring to leave it behind,
For she can’t move, her many scars
Remind her who keeps her alive.

Until one day, when she decides
That death is better than that hell.
She grabs the scissors, cuts the strings
And then bids everything farewell.

She waits for darkness to arrive,
The clock is ticking. Nothing comes.
The pain of a thousand sharp knives
She had imagined is nowhere near.

Doubting that she is truly free,
She slowly moves her hands and legs
And they obey her thoughts right then,
She doesn’t have to wait or beg.

She slowly stands up and falls down,
Losing her balance. One more time.
She stumbles, falls, gets up again
And learns to walk all by herself.

She slowly leaves her cage behind,
Tripping and stumbling, falling down,
But she’s determined: she won’t stay,
She’ll live to see another dawn.

As time goes by, she learns to run,
To jump, to spin, to sprint, to dance.
She starts to wonder how she could
Believe that he’d given her strength.

Painting her colours how she likes,
She is her own. And no one else
Can ever tell her otherwise.
She knows her truth. She loves herself.

– Patricia