Pulling String on a Puppet

Conditioning Felt Like Love

 

It was always him.

And it was always me

twisted into what he wanted.

 

He’s looking at me,

like he’s seeing me

for the very first time!.

 

Like I’m some kind of wonder

like he’s not worthy

to be in my presence.

 

Hand cupping my face,

his voice low, reverent—

“Who are you?”

A pause.

A breath.

 

“Are you an angel?”

he murmurs against my lips.

" you will be My Sin"

 

And in my head,

a random, fleeting thought:

If I am an angel,

I’m going to be your undoing.

But I don’t say it out loud.

 

I just start digging.

He tasted of ecstasy

with a hint of bitterness.

 

And I drank it down

like a woman dying of thirst.

Limbs tangled in performance.

 

He fed me pleasure

laced with control.

 

A moment frozen

not because it was beautiful,

but because I couldn’t move.

 

His hands were soft

when he needed them to be.

 

His lips were weapons

dressed up like a kiss.

 

“I feel your pain,”

he’d whisper.

 

As if he was my healer

when he was really

the wound.

 

“Let me take it from you,”

he said.

 

And I thought he meant the pain.

 

But he meant everything.

 

Every memory.

Every part of me

not yet claimed.

 

He didn’t just want my body

he wanted my silence.

 

My compliance.

 

“Come on, Diddles,”

he cooed, voice syrupy and slow.

“Let’s heal together.”

And I believed him.

 

Teeth to throat.

Fingers trailing bruises

in the shape of worship.

 

And I called it passion.

Every time I cried,

he tasted the salt

and called it love.

 

Every time I hesitated,

he pushed further,

until I stopped saying no.

 

I was taught

to perform for him.

To moan in all the right places.

To beg like I wanted it.

And when I finally came,

 

I didn’t know

if it was desire,

or defeat.

 

That’s what abuse looks like

when it’s masked

in moans.

It feels like love

until you realize

he choreographed

the entire dance.

 

He was the master

of mixed signals

the "yes" wrapped in fear,

no disguised as teasing.

 

I thought I had power

in the way I arched my back.

 

But he was the Puppet Master,

pulling strings

I didn’t even know existed.

 

And

 

I confused

surrender

for intimacy.

 

I confused

control

for connection.

 

I let him call it love.

 

Until I learned

that love doesn’t

demand obedience.

 

Doesn’t script your voice.

Doesn’t train your body

to respond

on command.

 

He didn’t just take my consent

he rewired it.

And I am still

unlearning

the choreography.

 

Still untangling the knots

he tied around my identity.

 

Still peeling

his fingerprints

from the places

I thought were mine.

Done