Our Secret Puppet

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We are all born with our own puppet, a fellow of flesh to shadow our steps in life – we always hold its hand as we walk along the track of time.
I have often longed to be rid of it. The burden of its beating heart too heavy to drag along.
I have often dreamt of drowning it when no one was looking.
I often look at the puppets Others were given, all radiant and rich with life, and I feel jealous.

We have tried to mimic them, my puppet and I. This was no play for us.
We often huddle together in front of windows. We often watch the world whirl by.
When my puppet shakes in my arms, I grow angry. I grow sorrowful.
We exist as we are. This is our lullaby. Our new song.
We do not want to lie anymore. We exist as we are.
No conventions, no expectations. We are outcasts by nature:
The pain is familiar. No tears flow anymore.
We won’t obey their laws.
We sit in the margins, loving from afar
eyes wide with longing, too wise to hope,
we sit and dream, me and this puppet I call Myself.