The purpose

Ripping apart my flesh in your cold embrace,
A letter to determine my fate.

Numbers choose your role and your life,
Your wishes are but a pitiful sight.

There is no choice but to succumb to spite,
Every piece of food you bite,
Are only reminders that you haven’t
created a good enough site—

A site or a sight,
Of papers and pens,
Blood and sweat,
Poured into life,
That was only ever meant for you to fight.