He says he’ll visit me.
A friend never goes back on his word,
and I know he’s not here for me, no—
his brother lives across town,
and he doesn’t even know I’m down
on my knees again, standing up—
but I can’t help but look up,
eyes forward to arms around
sinking shoulders, tie a string through
the holes in my collarbone and
lift them up like my lips.
Here
I’ve always been a puppet controlling
my own strings, but what would happen
if I showed someone behind the scenes?
Would they scream, say this is obscene?
Or show me their own strings?
Kasey Roper 