Like A Puppet On Strings

My dear, will my strings ever be cut? Or will they forever be embedded into my broken skin?
Oh, like a puppet on strings, this disease has a hold of me.
The Master Hand controls every twitch of muscle, every breath of stale air. My skin is split from trying desperately to release this black, cold poison that seems to take up every little crevice of my shattered being. My body is no longer my own. My spirit is becoming something I do not know.
I question my existence each time my eyes flutter. The strings from which I am attached to tighten, stretching my skin and pulling me up:
Higher.
Higher.
Higher.
Until my bare toes tickle treetops and I can see everything under the white glow of the brilliant sun; a blinding light that shines through these cracked imperfections. Bleeding and bruised from self-abuse, I watch the world atop a throne built with glittering diamonds and untarnished gold. The corners my mouth are held up in a twisted smile by demonic, gnarled, fingers.
Lights are brighter!
Colors seem loud!
My skin, my body, my spirit, is stretched beyond recognition but I am on top of the world—a goddess among mortal men. They say this is the good part: when the Master Hand pulls me above the shadows and forces smiles upon my bleeding flesh. Oh, but soon the strings that pull my skin apart are cut loose and I’m pushed off of my throne. My chest is heavy with a hollow emptiness, and my body is exhausted from the flight. My mind is filled with visions of blood and opened skin—dancing red lines across exposed necks. The strings are embedded into my skin once more, breaking through muscle and cracking bones. Slowly, I am lifted back above the treetops to sit atop my glistening throne; only to be thrown back down into a pile of my own disgust.
Oh, like a puppet on strings, this disease has a hold of me.

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