George Add


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,

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