The Devil's Workshop

I was born with puppet strings in my skin.
With hooks in my joints and a painted-on smile.
I was born to please and placate,
To be Mommy's Little Angel
(To look pristine).
I was born to vomit bubblegum pink
To cross my legs and use my manners
I was (born and told) to ignore the shouting
The sound of skin hitting skin.
Told to ignore Mommy's violet face
And Johnny's split knuckles
And smile (and say "Yes please!")

I wasn't born to question authority
Or ask about broken furniture.
I wasn't born to see my mother on the ground,
To smell her blood seeping into the carpet.
I wasn't born to steal a cell phone and
Call 911 and cry for help.

Where I'm from is not a place, not a dream,
Not a happy day or a labor of love.
I am from a puppeteer's hands, crafted with the utmost care
Molded with skill by cold hands
I am from the devil's workshop, and I witness the devil's work.

This poem is about: 
My family
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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