Playing With Puppets
Chapter One
Hands bound tight and scars on display,
‘Love me now’ I hear you pray.
But I heard an angel crying once,
One winters night, in May.
The air was cold, you closed your eyes,
I sat beside and said goodbye.
I saw an angel die beside me,
Alone and in pain I watched him weep,
But no one knows the secrets brown eyes keep.
“Please… please!” My voice is elevated to nearly a scream, but his eyes remain cold. “Please…”
I’m crying now and he’s laughing at my pitiful display.
“Please what?” He mocks me.
“Please… please don’t… please don’t hurt me.” My body is trembling but his eyes are so dark they’re nearly black.
“You were flirting with him, weren’t you.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement.
“No… no…”
“You were, I saw it, Zacky, you’re such a slut. I don’t know why I even stay with you sometimes.”
I know why he stays with me, it’s because no one else would still be with him after this much shit.
I don’t reply, I’m just shaking my head and sobbing desperately.
SMACK!
The force of the blow snaps my head to one side and sends my whole body backwards.
“Liar.”
Once upon a time,
In my fairytale past,
I’d planned it all out,
I couldn’t make it last,
Then I first met you,
And I loved you, now I cry,
My fairytale dream,
I watched it all die.
Waking up and I know you’re not there.
You never are if I did something wrong.
I don’t know what I did wrong, Syn. But whatever it was, I’m sorry.
You always wait until I’m out cold, then you’ll leave, sometimes only for a few hours, sometimes for a few days, once for a week.
And I know you do this, because once I faked it because I didn’t want to get hit any more, so I went limp and stopped fighting, and you stopped hitting me and left.
I think you knew I faked it because that was the week you didn’t come home at all, and when you did, your eyes were all red and you gave me flowers and you just kept apologising.
You hardly ever apologise.
I think you know I still fake a lot of things.
If we’re fucking and you’re trying to make me feel good, which although it doesn’t happen much, it does happen sometimes, I have to fake it because I’m too scared for it to actually feel like anything good at all.
I wince at the very thought of you knowing that I fake.
But you can’t know, can you?
If you knew I faked it, you’d hit me… heck, if you knew I fake you’d probably cut my dick off with a butchers knife. And I’m being serious. You’ve tried to kill me before now. Once you did have a knife, but you were drunk and your aim was shit, it didn’t even hit me. The other times you’ve tried to strangle me. None of them worked, as you might have guessed.
Watching out the window,
I hear him on the stairs,
I know I’ll be a fake tonight,
But I don’t think he cares.
He’ll complain about the bruises,
I don’t know what he’ll break,
I’ll tell him that I love him,
I’m such a perfect fake.
‘Love me now’ I hear you pray.
But I heard an angel crying once,
One winters night, in May.
The air was cold, you closed your eyes,
I sat beside and said goodbye.
I saw an angel die beside me,
Alone and in pain I watched him weep,
But no one knows the secrets brown eyes keep.
“Please… please!” My voice is elevated to nearly a scream, but his eyes remain cold. “Please…”
I’m crying now and he’s laughing at my pitiful display.
“Please what?” He mocks me.
“Please… please don’t… please don’t hurt me.” My body is trembling but his eyes are so dark they’re nearly black.
“You were flirting with him, weren’t you.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement.
“No… no…”
“You were, I saw it, Zacky, you’re such a slut. I don’t know why I even stay with you sometimes.”
I know why he stays with me, it’s because no one else would still be with him after this much shit.
I don’t reply, I’m just shaking my head and sobbing desperately.
SMACK!
The force of the blow snaps my head to one side and sends my whole body backwards.
“Liar.”
Once upon a time,
In my fairytale past,
I’d planned it all out,
I couldn’t make it last,
Then I first met you,
And I loved you, now I cry,
My fairytale dream,
I watched it all die.
Waking up and I know you’re not there.
You never are if I did something wrong.
I don’t know what I did wrong, Syn. But whatever it was, I’m sorry.
You always wait until I’m out cold, then you’ll leave, sometimes only for a few hours, sometimes for a few days, once for a week.
And I know you do this, because once I faked it because I didn’t want to get hit any more, so I went limp and stopped fighting, and you stopped hitting me and left.
I think you knew I faked it because that was the week you didn’t come home at all, and when you did, your eyes were all red and you gave me flowers and you just kept apologising.
You hardly ever apologise.
I think you know I still fake a lot of things.
If we’re fucking and you’re trying to make me feel good, which although it doesn’t happen much, it does happen sometimes, I have to fake it because I’m too scared for it to actually feel like anything good at all.
I wince at the very thought of you knowing that I fake.
But you can’t know, can you?
If you knew I faked it, you’d hit me… heck, if you knew I fake you’d probably cut my dick off with a butchers knife. And I’m being serious. You’ve tried to kill me before now. Once you did have a knife, but you were drunk and your aim was shit, it didn’t even hit me. The other times you’ve tried to strangle me. None of them worked, as you might have guessed.
Watching out the window,
I hear him on the stairs,
I know I’ll be a fake tonight,
But I don’t think he cares.
He’ll complain about the bruises,
I don’t know what he’ll break,
I’ll tell him that I love him,
I’m such a perfect fake.