Cuffed describes the strain of keeping yourself under wraps. The opening lines paint the speaker as physically bound, with tied hands and strangled legs, while the mind is just as tangled. The phrase "mandatory daily neutrality" suggests a routine in which showing no real feelings or opinions is simply expected.
The speaker gives everything to this performance, spending energy on lying and getting through the days "mechanically." Then comes a small shift. In the third stanza, there is a rare moment of relief, as if the speaker's personality managed something the speaker could not do alone. It is left vague, which keeps it intriguing.
The ending turns inward. The speaker claims to be a "servant to noone," yet is sleeping inside themselves, keeping lies safe from the outside world. The mood is tense, tired and guarded, with a faint note of quiet defiance. Hiding feels like both a prison and a form of protection.