It's always the same.
You twist and cut at my words.
I hate this prison.
As each painful day comes to an end, it's the same routine.
The words that cut from my lips
Are only slaughtered upon exit
And the remains thrown upon my face.
From the massacre of my speech.
My voice has ran.
This life of silence now suffices me.
One day, I pray your words will suffer.
I hope they suffer and are tortured.
Just as mine.
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