Zebra Seeking Spoons

I am not your puppet.

I do not sway

to the twitch of your fingers,

nor dance to music

you hum behind my back.

Your strings are threads of want,

knotted with control,

but I have scissors in my spine.

You cannot pull my head to bow

or tilt my smile into obedience.

I have my own hands—

calloused, restless—

and they will not be tied.

You may think

you built me to perform,

but I was born with fire in my knees,

a will in my chest

that refuses to kneel.

If you reach for me,

you will find

only air.

I have stepped out of your grasp—

a marionette no longer,

walking on my own.