Puppet Master

Puppet on strings, dancing to a wrist-slitting tune. It’s all about control which is severely lacking. Dancing barefoot on broken glass and rusty nails, twirling around as bloody streaks paint the floor with a story. The pain unnoticeable, sinks beneath the resounding cacophony of rejection. In the mirror, unrecognisable is the name of the reflection. The puppet master of deformation through emotional abacination. Because red is a colour of fascination, especially as it drains out of you.

©Immortal Illusion

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3 thoughts on “Puppet Master

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