I was raised like a pig for slaughter.
more of a burden,not really a daughter.
never had a home,nor have I ever cared
fragile as a flower petal, detached thin and scared.
there's more than blood beneath these wrists,
there's silk hidden under this sandpaper skin.
a paper machè caste encases a soul, divided in parts of seven.
who needs hell when you have suffering?
who needs bliss when you have heaven?
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