Taut

Something’s wrong. I’m sore from all the plucking and the tugging at my core, I’m stretched and taut and split and caught, and finally I’m seen; tearing at the stitches, my color itches for the switches that relax the strings that tie me, the cables laid inside me, they twist and try to hide me in a monochrome design.

I’m drawn (and live) in line. My face toward the wall until you will that I align, so turn my cheek, and have me speak the way that you define.

But I’m tired of all my wires, your desires, and this game, and you best believe I’ll draw upon this pain to fuel my flame.

I dare you to approach me. My poise is wearing thin. This trap longs to relieve you of the color in your skin.