Marionette

Every morning, 4:30 PM,

you crawl down to the playroom

and crouch by your dollhouse.

I slouch between two China kitchen chairs,

head lolling, eyes rolling,

heart a hollow pool of wood.

I cannot tell you to stop,

because my vocal cords are clipped like the yarn on my head.

No matter if I want to leave,

because no toy belongs in a world of toddlers.

So I string myself back to these things draping from your claws and dangling like puppet strings.

I’m your little marionette.