Your fists may leave their mark of blue on my cheek
Your sharpened nails may draw blood from my body
Your binding ropes may chafe and slice through my skin
Your arms may be capable of lifting me off the ground
Your strength may throw me against the wall
Your faceless rage may leave me broken, and cold.
But I am not dead.
The blue on my cheek is a mark of my resistance
The blood, dry on my clothes, is the color of my anger
The cuts on my skin are proof that I can survive
The moment I am lifted from the ground, I am free
The moment I hit the wall, I shall stand
My body may be broken, but I am strong
And I am not dead.
My fists will unclench as I aim for my target
My sharpened nails will wrap around the trigger
My ropes that bound me for so long will lie lose on the floor
My arms will be filled with the determination of a warrior
My strength will be that of a million abused
My faceless rage will leave you, broken and cold.
And I will not be dead.
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