Mask after mask, who in this world sees the real me, she asks. More often than not, it is a pool of sticky black that answers her. Like mud swamps, the more you struggle, the faster you’ll die.

The depth of her mind, shallow and unfathomable.

Sometimes she questions, if what she sees is real. People like to tell her how she feels, and her mind likes to tell her what to feel, and her heart simply remains still.

Robotic actions and obedient limbs. They follow orders, whatever the brain tells them to. When it says, be sad, the heart obeys. When it says, be happy, the heart fulfils. And when it says nothing, the heart flails, what should I feel today? Is this how it supposed to be? Or who shall I become now?

 

Plastic and porcelain,

They all make beautiful dolls.

But no doll is ever as pretty as one made of flesh and bones.

No strings attached,

Yet it always follows what is asked.

Be it the master of this sacred art,

Or a mere piece of moving rag,

Rolling eyes and clamping lips,

Where is the missing piece?

 

Originally posted on Wonders About Writing.

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Published by Mary Thuy Tien - Wonders About Writing