Why does it have this control over us?

So we become mindless marionettes,

Happily dancing ignorant to strings attached?

We know who we are, independent, unique,

Can’t be hurt by a lover, we are wonderful.

But the puppeteer of this grand show has another fate in mind.

When he is not him ,when she is not her,

Our wooden hands fly to our hips or our mouths

And tears which feel superficial glide from our eyes

like unfaithful children from a mother’s arms.

Love, this puppeteer, is in charge.

It is not our show.

We only wish it were.