Love Puppeteer
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Was it the way you said my name?
Or could it be the tender touch
Of strong, masculine hands
Gently caressing the dull locks
Of my hair?
Average feels like a death sentence
The puppet strings demand my fist
to beat the rain-filled ground and scream
at love, my puppeteer. His kiss;
a sneering jail that likes to free
the dead while letting others rot.
And I am rotting.
