Etch not unto her pliant flesh,
Cruel marks of your monstrous desire,
For though her skin may bend beneath your touch,
Her soul is a force, an unquenchable fire.

You strike with hands that seek to dominate,
Imprint your cruelty, mark her deep,
But know this—she is not a thing to own,
Not a vessel for your darkness to keep.

Her heart, though soft, is not to be chained,
Her spirit, wild and untamed.
She bears your brutality with a silence born of strength,
Enduring the weight of your cruelty, unashamed.

You see only what you want to possess,
Her body, her form, her flesh, her grace,
But within her, a storm begins to grow,
A quiet fury, an unseen face.

The marks you leave will fade with time,
But the rage that smolders deep inside,
Is a river that runs beneath the surface,
Silent, patient, ready to collide.

She does not cry out, nor beg for mercy,
Her screams are swallowed by the night.
She waits—though bruised, though battered—
For the moment when she will ignite.

In the stillness, she is a storm
That gathers strength, unseen by you.
You thought you could silence her—
But in silence, her fury grew.

Each wound you carved, each insult hurled,
Was a spark that fed the flame,
And though you thought you could control her,
You only fanned the fire of her name.

She is the whisper of the wind before the storm,
The calm before the battle begins. ...