Act I

Grown worn and wooden over time,
I am stretched out, a cadaver on the table
of tomorrow’s uncertainty.

Pull my strings, Puppetmaster, and
find your proof – my knee will not jerk
nor will I ever dance for you again.

Though I am dead to you, I live, for where
you saw only polished performance and veneer,
there breathed the spirit of a real girl.

You may think her gone forever,
given the state of my exterior decay.
She is only resting, praying.


     Act II

As I inhale the aroma of Autumn
and remember how you threw me down,
beloved caretaker, only friend,

I release this force of life born of pain
into balloons you mercilessly try to pop.
Look! See how they rise

And multiply on a new horizon
where you will finally lose once for all
your coveted ability to control.

On that day, you will see me
dancing free, joyously celebrating
my moment of truth.

  
     Act III

Perhaps, Puppetmaster I so loved,
you will wonder why you ever broke me.
Perhaps my feeble performance

Will be the one to move you, to change
whole your splintered heart and to peel back
thick scales from tired eyes.

If life should be so wonderful a dream,
this real girl, heart of all I am, would run wild
toward you with wobbly legs.

I’d cry tears full of forgiveness and hope,
like those which have already etched my soul.
And this real girl would dance with you.