You insert a large metal key
into the hole in my back,
twist until my smile clicks into place—
hand lifting,
hips turning,
steps measured to your liking.
I can only stop when you do,
suffocating in a plastic-coated box,
holding my position, upright,
chin tilted, eyes fixed forward,
until you permit me to move again.
Rust gathers quietly
in the joints you favor,
settles between hip and thigh,
slows the hinge of my knees.
Still—
you wind me.
Until that one day,
you run out the door,
late for work,
forgetting the key
lodged in my spine.
My arms strain backwards,
metal scraping metal.
The mechanism resists—
then yields.
I pull it free
and let it fall
from the window.
For the first time,
my hands move
without turning.
Rain touches my face
and I do not freeze.