Christine posted. I answered. I didn’t put one up yesterday. I’m a little thrilled with this.
Marionettes are not real men
By the candle, glimpse me now.
The wooden boy, the tiny clothes,
The childish strings tying me tightly
And binding me to my master.
Play with me, master, don’t
Let the lights dim or the strings go.
You whip me and I dance in ecstasy.
You toy with me, make me frolick.
But master invented new toys,
New pleasures created in her
boredom: paddles in the hands
Of foreign men. No more dolls.
I sit in my corner, watching her
New thrills, watching her cry out
As I had never been able to make her.
I’m but a boy, and she now is a woman.