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My Body Is Dead
My body is dead.
A mere mannequin to my stylist’s design.
A Marionette to my puppeteer’s flick of a wrist.
My puppeteer creates me. I am but the puppeteer invested in myself, the puppet.
My puppeteer puts on a show, then casts me aside to rot in my own self-hatred.
My choice, it is not.
My stylist dresses me and creates me as she thinks best, but I know what’s best for me.
What’s best for me is choice.
No outfits or dresses,
Wigs or hair styles,
But to let me decide which dresses and which wigs I’d like to wear.
But, my puppeteer gives me no choice. ...