The frost

Frost bitter stuck between her fingers
like paint that wouldn’t stop bleeding into her parts -
blue, it scared her, he forced her
hands out in the cold
and now she, a frozen entity,
a corpse
with pink lips and dead hands
no longer could
organize papers or lift a pen,
the colour of ink now, deep.

She is now the instrument
with her blood frozen, weak
with hunger from withholding words,
not consuming any worlds
nor creating them too,
it is a pity what men will do
when they see a pretty face damn them,
but her voice shall forever be heard,
he did not silence her,
blood still flowed through her lips.

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