Home » Poems » Lydia Siegenthaler » The Puppet

The Puppet

You were a puppeteer. Sitting at your desk, you crafted me, delicately you painted a smile upon my face, so I was always happy – so I appeared always happy. Then, you began to play with me, as any puppeteer does a puppet. At first, you played with me delicately, carefully, and friendly. You smiled down on my gently crafted smiling face. But soon, you began to neglect me. My strings upon the table, I would go hours or even days without being played with. I noticed you crafting about on your table, wondering what you were working on. My smiling face stayed happy, my crafted body in tact although inside I was breaking. But you always came back, always came back to play with me. But little did I know then, you were my puppeteer. And you were controlling me, moving my strings to the rhythm you played and pushing me, throwing me about like a toy. I was a toy. But you painted a smile on my face, so I always appeared happy. But as you controlled me, I eventually began to break. A crack against my wooden heart soon became visible to you. I knew you would fix me, as you always did. But as the crack got larger, you neglected me more, working on your other project more than usual. You never came to play with me, and I knew you would eventually come back to repair me. But one day you picked me up, noticing the crack upon my heart. But instead of repairing me like usual, you realized this crack was harder to fix than before. So you gave up on me. My smiling face and delicate body, once gently handled by a kind puppeteer, was thrown into the garbage. As I fell, I noticed inside the bin were many, many other puppets inside. Their once smiling faces were faded and distressed as we all lay inside the bin, hoping to be picked up by the puppeteer again. So I looked up, noticing the project you were working on. You had finally finished – it was a new puppet. Now I could watch, watch my same story with another puppet. I knew that your new puppet would soon be in the bin beside the rest of us fallen puppets. Us victims, puppets of the puppeteer with the once kind and gentle heart, that had stopped playing with the puppet. Given up, gotten bored, the puppets around me felt the same. And I knew now how much you controlled me, repainting the smile upon my face and keeping me blind to your puppet work. And now I realized, although I had a crack upon my heart you did not want to fix, that all of your playing creating that crack. And I knew now, that to you I once seemed special, the prettiest puppet you’d ever constructed. But I also knew now, that to you I was just another one of your puppets.

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