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I suppose once it’s all but over

screams of agony are merely

annoying burdens.

Scream and writhe, plead in pain.

No one wants to hear that shit

or see that squirm.

But even before…

No one stood up to help

No one cried out the injustice

No one stood next to me

or for me.

I suppose no one knows what could be done

while they’ve murdered me

yet kept me alive

to feel death every step of the way

every inch of the process.

Killing off piece

after piece

after piece…

while everyone has watched

either in agreement

in judgment of me

or in silence.

Not all suicides are self inflicted.

There are strong relentless hands around my throat

Barbed wire squeezing my heart

Vacuumes sucking out my spirit

Furious flames blaze my will to live.

I’m a useless puppet who never worked properly

so they’ve destroyed me slowly

from the inside out.

There was silence while I was abused

or the noise of blame thrown in my ears.

Stillness as I was raped.

Silence while I cried.

Apathy while I begged.

My pleas were ignored

all my life

This is no suicide.

This has been a long, slow execution

started at my birth.

…a painfully slow torture to the death

among a gallery of silent, apathetic observers

watching with blank stares

speaking empty words

feeling nothing

except annoyed.

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