Is not my own
Like a keyboard laid out before you, you play me. So delicate, soft; beautiful. Your manipulative fingers pull me to dance to your tune, away from that of my own. You bend and twist my will, tearing up my beliefs and my dignity; I am shredded before you, ready for you to mould me into something of your own creation.
Your puppeteer fingers pull at my strings, and I dance. It is not my dance, not my body. My dance is of eternity and beauty, of freedom and simplicity. Love. My dance is of love. Such innocence does not meet your approval, oh no. You scooped me from the shelf and reprogrammed me to suit your own desires. I sway my body in seduction, because that's what you like, isn't it? And if I tug an arm away from your control you set me down and walk away, leaving me in the dark theatre of nothingness. You lead me to believe that I shall be in eternal loneliness, and I pine for you, cry for you. I pine for you to play with me once more, if onl