Dragging arms under shadows of cedars,
the string-torn marionette finds comfort
in the darkness of webbed branches
blocking lunar spotlights
from shouting her position:
here, knee inverted like a bird, 
there, arm twisted behind back,
now, neck at ninety degrees,
then, spine stretched under split legs.

But all the pain of twisted threads
is worth the suffering to be away
from his godly pushing and pulling 
and yanking and throwing her will
to the wind for his own am(use)ment
and that of the world…with no say
to simply exist as a pretty thing for herself.

She found a knife and lunged her hands
and head and legs on the sharp blade
over and over until cotton blood burst
across the table; she was half her born size

but free. No hands, but she was free.
No feet, but she was free. No hair, but she was free.
Despite her failure to thrive, barely able to survive,
she crawls through the forest
breathing unconditional air unconditioned, pure
and her painted smile finally speaks true.

Hear me read this poem on SoundCloud!