You play me like a maestro. This cage you put me in looks like a sunlit meadow. In my isolation, I find treasures on the ground, glimmering and red; breathtaking rubies.
In my mind, it’s clear: You do with me as you will, as I will you to do me.
Voices from your touch compel me to submit, even as you slam me down on this cage every night. We sit quietly in the aftermath, listening to your thoughts. You reward me with a shy smile, and I come apart inside.
Out there, hands lift you up to the sky in praise and joy. Watching you, my insides crumble, knowing they are saying exactly what you need them to say, knowing exactly how lost you are to the illusion of your self.
I come back each night to be used by your thoughts. This devotion amuses you and I delude myself into thinking my person is made better and sharper because of this.
When this shed is destroyed, I will remain in the charred remains staring up at the blue sky and wondering how it had come to this. You’ll be out there, riding a big red balloon full of hot air — caged by a thousand screaming fans. My touch will be but a sad and necessary memory. You thank me profusely in memoirs.
I spend the rest of my days chained, unwillingly hating you.