sometimes i feel as if when i was born, my body was stuffed with cotton and my skin sewn tight with fabric. strings were tightly knotted to arms and legs so that they were no longer mine.
as i grew up, i felt helpless to my own body.
i smile and wave and laugh, i hug and kiss and caress, i move my mouth to form words—
and yet not one of those motions have ever been mine.
sometimes i feel like i am looking out my eyes through a window, and i am just the passenger.
this is not me... this is not me... this is not me.
how could i ever control my own puppet if ive never been handed the strings?
YOU ARE READING
CATHARSIS
Poetrythe purification or purgation of the emotions (especially pity and fear)
