Cover me up. Unfold me, and then look at me. Say no, Wrap me back up.

It should be easy. Like sending a package. It should be a process that takes minutes, that makes it all easy. Fold, unfold. Fold, unfold. Take out, put it back in. Analyse the flaws, touch the burns, caress the softness of the skin, play with the lips.

Like a doll. And you, the master puppet. You play with everything because you think the world is your scene. And it is, it is a scene for every one of us playing its role, its part in this dirty crazy beautiful world. But the threads might trick you, into moving into certain directions. The doll might know your deepest thoughts, fears and even though she is not physically there, she thinks she cracked it. Why you did every single move, she think she knows now.

It should be easy, to pack up and leave. Leaving is the easiest thing any human can do. Running away. I think we were born with this desire, to run away, to escape.

What she thinks is the sad deep truth. About her and about the master puppet. It gives away what the master held back ever since that day he failed her, when he showed his dark side. That side never returned, it kept hidden away.

It should be easy, though, breaking threads, puppets, leaving the scene, burning down the theatre. But what do you bring down with them?

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