all kinds of

Red scratches down my face

Red, angry eyes shooting at like mace

I remember

Being held up against the wall

Being hopeful I’d soon land and fall

I remember

Feeling all alone

Feeling I’d rather die than be able to atone

I remember

Looking death in the face, and it

Looking like my lover had been debased

I remember

It all

Aching, fatigued, and sore.

She doesn’t feel like

Fighting anymore.

She growls and towers,

Despite my short stature.

She terrifies the ones,

That most wish to catch her.

Now moaning, crawling,

Indentations of round,

Fingertips sprawling,

Across the ground.

The soul, she was pressed,

And molded like clay,

To become something else,

And she refused to fall prey.

She became this sinister thing,

As she had little to protect her,

And this great ugly brute,

Did her best to shield others.

But now, my soul, she is weary,

Bleary-eyed, yet still alive,

Inching nearer towards,