Strings

I know your soft voice easing me into sleep is a trap. 

"Stay."

"What about everything I've done for you?"

Marionette strings fly from your fingers like fine spider silk -- with every thread I break, another hundred replace it. It's slick yet strong, and neither the sharpest knife nor the greatest amount of resolve I can muster can cut the ties that bind. 

You slither from underneath the shadows of my bed and pull me under towards a make-believe stage of wonder, twinkling lights, and lies. I hate this dream, but I can't wake up. I don't want to dance, but the strings lift my wrists high into a halo above my head and my ankles into first position.

"Stay."

"Isn't it better here?"

I'm leaping and spinning, and an audience I cannot see is applauding. The sounds of a beautiful orchestra ring loudly in my ears. My entire body is shaking. I just want to stop, but I can't break free from your strings. No, not strings. "Strings" is too delicate a word. The hefty weight of your presence is more like a chain.

I finally wake from the dream after my spine is forced forward into a low bow, but I can still feel my limbs burning. If I squint hard enough, I can make out faint, red marks from where your strings held me up. 

"Stay."

"You need me, and you know it."

Your whispers continue to haunt me as daylight breaks through the stillness of the early morning. I don't want to need you, but I feel too weak to fight back against your familiarity.