I wrote a poem this morning. It’s how I’ve been feeling.
I am a marionette
with chipped paint and scarred wood.
I come to life like Pinocchio,
but strings are still attached.
So many strings.
One string my own choices,
one my obsessive thoughts,
one my anxiety,
one my depression,
one or two—or a million—other people—
Pulled, yanked, shoved, beaten,
doing a dance I don’t know how to stop
until I’m a tangled, mangled mess . . .
of chipped paint . . .
and scarred wood . . .
and strings I just want to cut.