I write for those who cannot

I write for my brothers and sisters who daily feel the whip tear into their flesh. They scream in agony and beg for mercy, but their oppressors continue heedlessly. Some of them surrender to the demands of their persecutors, hoping to stop the outrage. They survive, but how long will the mutable government show them favor? Others dig in their heels, bite the bullet, and refuse to give up the thing they love the most. And often they lose everything because of it, tasting the gall of injustice once more before the end. I write for wives and mothers who lose their husbands in war and see their children sold like cattle. They kiss their husbands before they leave, knowing they may never return. In their heartbroken rage, mothers tear the hands of their children’s attackers, but all in vain. Their children wail, reaching for their mothers who are just out of reach. Their young lives will never be the same. I write for girls forced to give their most precious gift to cruel strangers. They dream of men who will love and protect them, loving them for who they are, not what they can give. They feel the pain and twisted pleasure, but they know the agony is real and pleasure is a lie. The strangers purr into their ears, promising love and delight, but at heart, they are vultures and wolves. Will these girls ever experience the love they crave, the love they so desperately need? I write for the child whose family rips apart before his eyes. Mom and Dad have a fight, and Dad hurls a kitchen knife across the room, stabbing Mom in the arm. She bleeds profusely, hurling obscenities into his face. The child sees and wails, covering his ears with his hands. He covers his head with a blanket, weeping, but he cannot shut out the hateful screams and images of blood. I write for people who feel the brokenness of their bodies, the once spectacular frames that now fail them. They once ran with wings like falcons and soared instead of walked. They once sang like nightingales and danced like dolphins. Now they cannot; their limbs, once so powerful, crumble beneath them like eroded soil from roots. Some of them try to sing again, and their voices come out the croaks of bullfrogs. Will they ever feel the delight of sprinting again, or experience the ecstasy of singing at the top of their lungs? I write for all these – those broken at the pleasure of cruel hands, those savagely torn apart, those silenced. I write for those who cannot.