That stringed puppet,
she danced in the spotless moonlight,
manipulated by skilled hands,
that guided her graceful movements.
She became half alive,
and she relishes the life
the master of the art gave her.
Then those hands moved no more,
and the puppet lies
like a fallen doll in the darkness.
She cuts herself to see if she bleeds,
to feel if she hurts,
to know if she's alive.
She both loathe and welcome the pain,
like how she bask in the essence of
her half life awakening.
Delighted that she's capable of emotions,
yet incomplete
coz she's not whole.