Damn, my body doesn't belong to me. I'm depression's marionette— a tremble of strings, arms, hands, legs, and feet. Put me onstage. Give me the lead role in a minor tragedy. Make me play war. Make me a soldier with a knife in his head. It's okay. My body doesn't belong to me. Put me on the sidewalk. Make me spin, stagger, and leap. Make me doff my hat and beg: "Ladies and gentlemen, can you spare a dime for this tremble of strings, arms, hands, legs, and feet." Make me a mime. Make me silently scream. Make me rue. Make me rage. Make me regret. Make me anything. My body doesn't belong to me. I'm depression's marionette, clumsy and dumb. Make me collapse. Make me a trembling and tangled mess of strings, arms, hands, legs, and feet. Drape me over the altar. Make me pray. Make me weep. Play the church organ. I'll play dead. This isn't me. It's just a body— a tremble and tangle of strings, arms, hands, legs, and feet.
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This week I had a student go from my classroom to psychologist to psych hospital in an hour. I am sure this is exactly where they were. You nailed it.
Love the Villanelle form. Something for me to try!
This one hits a little home. Well done, Sherman.