Face or knuckle Duster?

Out of the hands of those I trusted,
My softness was knuckle dusted, with
blue cheeks and the dim light of freedom
getting harder to see.
Primal instincts failing me.
No one expected me to stand
and offer up my my hands
gripped tight to pain devices
that each had their prices.
Each blow to the face
lead me to a darker place,
where blood sport and the metallic taste
became home. Became a sweet and
addictive joy. A secrete kept from love.
Kept secret, ‘cept between me and above.
The divine eyes that watched me break
watched me clench my jaw and victims make,
out of those who’s faces still stained the bars
of the cage I was in, where I gained my scars.
I am a fighter. But I am also a biter.
Venomous when crossed. Relentless at cost.
Any by my own admission,
guilty of cruelty. But not to men.
You don’t call them men.
And even then… I struggle with a word
to replace the savagery that I would use to describe,
the monsters that killed me, but kept me alive.
Killed the light and beat life into the beast
that now comes to pity parties simply to feast
on the conformation
that I am not
the face being knuckle dusted, and
that the black wings of death wont have me,
not yet.

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