Acrimony had taken the backseat, patience driving her over time;
She used the same hands to wash things now that were used to get her rides over the line.
She had become an afflicted shadow of her resolute, tenacious self;
Scratches on her, only this time it was not a fall, but a hand the reason.
She tried to put a foot through the ceiling of her rage for the man who raised her;
Not realizing her tolerance was trying to break loose from the hasp of oppression deep inside.
The vile hands came again to clutch her, only to be surprised;
As she twisted it, breaking bones in the process.
The scream resounded throughout, suppressing the sounds of shackles breaking;
She was free finally, not from him, but from her inhibitions, from HERSELF.
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