Ragdoll

Ragged lines stitch me together,
with mix-matched thread
holding pieces of who I used to be,
together with pieces of others I admire,
all next to things I hope to be.

None of these parts line up,
make sense,
or play well together.
They continuously fight for control over me,
with one gaining my tongue for a brief moment,
before it's ripped away and put into the ownership of another.

I'm constantly torn between who I think I am,
who I was,
and who I wish to be.
Some days, I'm not sure which is which,
​or who has control over me anymore.