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Dec 2016
Wrapped around my wrist,
A trap, a catch,
The colour (black) defines me,
And with that pigment,
Justified hatred poured out,
Absolute disgust at my disagreement
with their designation of who I must be.

Each blow to my chest flattens the skin,
Beats me closer to submission,
Crushes my every chance at hope,
The cracked screen offers no escape,
Only the pain and punches offer
"Truth."

The vicious hunger in his eyes
Tells me I'm as good as dead,
And worse to him.
I am nothing but a sickness.
Parsavagely Kompenere
Written by
Parsavagely Kompenere  19/F/Yorkshire
(19/F/Yorkshire)   
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