Strings
They tell me who I am.
They tell me how to dress: wear nice blouses with bright skirts and heels, don’t mix and match colors, and present yourself as a lady; They tell me what to buy, on TV screens with a pink or blue saturated hue, colors mixing and turning to static in my head. They tell me what to eat, filling my phone grocery list with salads, vegetables, fruits, only so much grain, only so much meat and dairy; no, don’t eat chocolate or ice cream. They tell me where to go: school, work, stores, malls, movies, bars, clubs, home. They tell me what to say; no cursing allowed, sophisticated words, only speak when spoken to or asked a question.
They tell me how to stand, how to walk, how to run. But not… how to fall.
They tell me to get up. I am Their puppet; the sharp steel strings entangle me, ensnare me and twist, biting deeply into skin. I am trapped in an infinite nightmare of blood and pain and strings and weights and blackness. The walls curve and cave and curdle until the corners swallow everything.
They say it’s better this way. They say I will be alright. That if I follow Their every order, command, Their very will, I can succeed. They say I can be happy and stable.
But what if I’m not happy? What if Their instructions are wrong? What if They don’t guide me, but misguide me? What if They misjudge me, misunderstand me? What if They misinform me?
I tell myself who I am.
I tell myself how to dress: comfortable sweatpants, long and baggy shirts and oversized hoodies, jeans that don’t always fit correctly; I tell myself what to buy, shoving the sickening static of the TV away and shutting it off. I tell myself what to eat: homemade foods, pasta, chicken, sometimes a salad, sandwiches, pancakes, and a little bit of chocolate and ice cream.
I tell myself where to go: home, friends' houses, parks, pools, then to work and school; I tell myself what to say: Fuck, shit, bitch; I express my anxiety, my depression freely.
I tell myself how to walk, how to run, how to Fly.
I tell Them to go away; I tell Them I don’t need them anymore; I tell Them I am more than what They think I am. The stinging strings strain on my head, my body, my soul as I pull with free will. I pull and pull and pull to obtain freedom. The strings snap, the echo reverberating through blood, singing in my bones, and sighing in my shoulders. I am not Their puppet anymore. I am not trapped. I dream of golden memories, butterflies that swirl in the warm spring breeze.
It’s better this way. I will be alright. I will follow my own lead and succeed.
I want to be happy someday, and I know I will. Even if it’s not right now.
