Fledgling

Many words gather and drip, one by one,
from the acid-like tongue of the master.
His scorched daughter suffers, her smooth stomach rots,
Her slender hands burn as her boiled blood clots.

Young and distorted by deafening pain,
she is mute, resolute–she will not speak again.
Many words falter before being spoken,
defeated, unneeded, their syllables broken.

The ironlike fist of the master’s sick reign
smears its subject until she is only a stain.
The master is deadly, the master is blind,
and the masterful price of her staying alive.

He casts off his vices with two-faced devices
and coats his harsh words in a pretty, bright gloss.
He’ll rinse and repeat while the cycle continues,
and swear that true love cannot live without loss.

Young and distorted by deafening pain,
a girl dissolute with a reckless rage
finds a kinship quelled, with every word spoken–
the last of a bond, bent and bowed
until broken.

She lives
and she learns
to unlock her own cage.
She severs the grip of the master’s sharp tongue
and she breaks his thick fingers, one by one,
and rebuilds her sweet life by the light of the sun.

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