Graphic by Kayleigh Woltal
I spent years tied to fishing line, reciting a puppet play. The puppeteer tied it in square knots firmly around my joints, taking extra care around my neck and my feet. Now he yanks as he pleases, gives me whiplash for fun and forces me to run. He lassoed some around my heart. He tugs it to constrict the muscle, forcing a salsa rhythm I can hardly keep up with. I woke up to a string in my brain, anchored in my amygdala. He must have snaked it through my ears while I slept.
I could feel the puppeteer everywhere, but he stayed behind the curtain. He made sure everyone saw his act as my reality. So yesterday I painted my strings, wrapped them in thick caution-yellow yarn, hung a sign over my head advertising his puppet show. Now the audience watches as he forces my jerking movements. I know they find discomfort in his control. Girls aren’t supposed to be on strings.
But I have never felt freer.