She corners herself, scarred from the imposing figurines spitting across her path, mouthing lewdness and disrespect.
And this is the spate of the state that prides itself on heritage.
A fucking child, lying in the gutter with the insides annihilated, hurting from the spite, scorned for innocent banter, and none giving a fuck about what lay ahead of her.
Dirt, desperation and further assault.
Wherein a man gloats himself for overpowering his wife, wishes to fuck the girl he scorns at, looks down upon an independent and world-owning beauty, and drinks himself to frustration.
And a woman must see examples around her, reducing themselves to men-pleasers.
Why the fuck, she asks?
Why cannot she be a smoking, free-spirited child, earning her brain's worth, writing with a wild abandon, and living life, in her territory?
Must you, oh dear man, judge from your fucking self-appointed high-pedestal, gazing that, that you have no business understanding?
Your pitiful sense of criticism can bloody well fuck itself.
'Cause the child shall grow, hard as stone, and shall spite you soon after.
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