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Pulled.
 She was pulled by the strings that twisted around each other when things went south. 
Mangled to the rosy wires and dark abyss that carved her outline.
With the distorted puppet master, who cackled behind the drawn curtain and twirled his gnarled fingers to have her dance for him and others.
Another whirl, another twist, hands on hips, lips plumped out, dress scooted up.
Just liked he showed. Just like he taught.
The force he gave along to her.
Her wrists bared scars of the abuse of movement, the hooks clung to her head and arms.
 She no longer pushed for freedom, for the caked blood on her tattered frame was a reminder. 
This wasn’t her body anymore, she didn’t remember it.
She was labeled.
A quick pirouette, showing of her silhouette legs. 
A departed flower hung in her weary breast pocket  that use to be as lovely as she, full of a beating life and a holy glow above it all, a delicate life dancing with her rich locks.
But the petals had fallen off so long ago, each wrinkled and withered into dust, blown with her tears. 
A gift, it was all she knew from it, a gift from a hidden lover she thought she knew. 
Who she thought would bring her ecstasy, a satisfying leisure.
But she never knew that when he gave her that rose, that he was the thorns on it that sheared in her heart.

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