by Skye Matheney
I tried to tell you. It was just a date,
a movie, late on a Saturday night.
He made me feel like I could fly, but you
came back as if I was still in your hands;
like I somehow belonged to you. Then why
do you tell me I can’t when I say I can?
You think I don’t, but I can see your noose,
I clearly see it hanging there. And if
I step onto your stage, would someone stop
and stare? I’m not a puppet on a string,
a remote-control plane. I will always be
the girl who’s left to cry out in the rain.
I’m not a damsel in distress, I don’t
need your help. I can do this on my own;
yes, I can save myself. I am not
a puppet on a string; you can’t control me.