“WOODEN HEART…” by Tracey Mac

You think because I am tiny, I am solid, I have vacant haunting black blobs for eyes, that I have no heart? You think because there are strings that crucify my wooden hands, or because my painted hair is covered with a painted cap, or because tears and frowns do not belie my emotions on my rigid face, there is no soul within me? Look, then. For you I have cracked the wood of this skin, for you I have pulled down these strings until splinters of blood have been shaved from my fingers, for you I have renounced the glamour and applause of a stage that faces a faceless soulless crowd. I have dug into the hollows of my hand-crafted body, and have plucked out my heart to prove to you, to show you. If you are revolted, I will put it back where it belongs, and ask the puppetmaster to glue my chest. If you are appeased, I will hand it to you to care for it better than I.

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