A blade of ice scrapes,
the length of my back,
radiating the cold throughout,
my feeble limbs.
Shackles sprout like roots,
and grip,
at the raw flesh,
of my ankles.
Closing in tighter,
are the walls,
of my sandpaper throat,
allowing nothing,
to pass in,
or out.
My eyes try to scream,
what my trembling lips can’t,
but no one sees,
what you’re taking from
me.
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Canary word: Present
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