Cruelty were the promises that never quite reached his eyes, the falsefed illusions of freedom, before the entrapment, glass trees and silver seas;
They were his reeling glances that had been trained to immobilize, for we were nothing more than stabilized baits, grimey baits for dirty capture, captured only to be tortured and pigs for slaughter,

As all stories evolve into grander tales, modest laughter transformed into midnight screams as his Daredevil eyes castrated my throat like tightrope on human skin, reminiscent of the days our spirits cried for mercy to the Gods that were supposed to exist;
Let our bodies be devoured by the flames of this hellish world that promised us opportunity,
Give us opportunity, we cried; give us opportunity and we will mend the world;

What became of the fragile dreams of liberation as he tethered me to the chains, my crucifixion at last, only to come on my remains; I cry, I cry;
This castrated heart sees no boundaries; why has it only ever been bounded?

These creaking wooden frames and his foam mattresses have endured more warfare than the trenches;
Do you understand what it means to be enslaved?
No, this is not a metaphor for a mortal dillema, it is the hands with veins that carve pathways to catastrophes; it is the irises guided by ambitions of destruction; it is the day they give us away to this torment because it is supposed to be better than the life we could have had, so we fall into the reign of men who let us endure our hundred deaths in the timespan of a night when he conquers our bodies, like a ruthless imperialist;
This torture sees no end;

Give me opportunity, I cry, and I can mend this world, give me opportunity and I can mend this world...He hears nothing more than resistance;
Mercy? There is no mercy;
We are nothing more than animals awaiting a salvation that will never come,

I once held a pen in my hands when he was away on his many missions, his predation long done; I was a prey left to decay; this prey had found her elixir on the blank pages of an unwritten fate; no we are not the words that could have revolutionized scholarly lives; we are the shaky sketches of the birds we so desperately desired to become as we visiously cursed our mothers for the mistakes of our fathers: Mama, mama, why didn't you give us wings? This is cruelty.

Cruelty are the nights he ravaged us and cherished the son born in consequence. Chopping off our little girl's hair, it is her little irises that breathe fire before they are condemned to our very fate. Subjugated by a man her other half relies on life lessons from, a man with luscious white poking out of his chin as he reaches to grab death by its hand, a man so seemingly wise but the perpetrator of her cruel fate, and she writhes in the only pain she knows as her stomach constricts because of a certain pain down below, the pain of the long known, a pain so familiar that she hardly recognizes it is pain, and Give me opportunity, she laughs through her hysteria; give me the opportunity to mend my broken soul.