Bound

Pulled aside,

I’m told of my transgressions.

I’m not performing as I should,

I’ve been cold and removed.

My silence and disinterest

treated like company infractions.

I’m becoming conveniently ostracized,

I’m sure I was made from different design.

My shoulders aren’t taut,

or  strung with string

like those around me.

Compact and hidden,

I focus on the outside.

Reminding myself I’m alive.

Each step I take,

I trip over their strings.

I’m becoming radical.

I realized their faces

are cracked and strained.

Showing more wear and tear

as time goes on.

I wonder if they have a home.

Their strings don’t reach past the door.

Has anyone tried to leave?

They don’t know.

I think that’s why they stay.

Not knowing keeps them bound,

head pronated up,

feet flat on the ground.

I want to cut them down

but they don’t deserve it.

The look on their faces,

no matter the paint or prosthetic

to feign content,

is cognizant of their turmoil.

They are aware of their regret.

They are aware of their complacency.

They are aware of their control,

and how they lost it with time.

They put faith in comfort,

they put faith in lies.