An inelegant tangle of limbs and strings
just beneath the hands that let go,
am I a real boy now?

The world is made of ‘I told you so’s
and resolute silence,
and my voice is gone because it was never truly my own,
and my painted smile still hangs in it’s place
though I am out of mine

out of my mind
with nothing but time
on my wooden hands.

And you,
with your condescending offer to give me life,
and your hands still gripping the cross,
wanting me to want –
wanting me to beg –
to be strung up once again.

It’s never enough that I break…
I have to be broken,
and you must put me back together:

One hand will save and
the other will torture.
And I will love and hate them both in equal measure.


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