Marionette and the Moon

When did these strings
Take a hold of my heart, skin and bones?
I am the marionette,
Dragged onto the stage
With my bleeding knees –
Mascara streaks on my cheeks –
The performer of no story at all,
With black tears that do nothing
But fall.

A single spotlight
Fixated on my eyes,
And my ambitions,
My hopes and dreams –
Are they
What I made, or
What was I made for?

I am no Atlas,
I was not made to carry the world,
Or the sky, I
Was made to be like the moon,
Because
When I see her late at night
When I’m all on my own,
I see myself just like her:
Scarred and alone.