{ Based on the true story of how I felt being with my last partner, who would refer to the tight *metaphorical* leash he kept me on to remain subordinate as his "cage," when he knew I was never one who was meant for it. }

The room she is confined to is boring, but quiet. There is a pleasant calmness to it at first. Despite how small the room may be, she still feels a sense of freedom to do as she pleases (although, there aren't many options aside from smoking cigarettes and writing in her journal). She's unaware that she is actually locked in there. The room serves as a cage in order to try and keep her in there as she begins to grow her wings. As her angel wings begin to grow, seemingly out of nowhere different methods of bondage begin to attach themselves to her. Thrust into madness, she uses her body to write on as if it were her journal while dark thoughts and negative self-talk start to consume her (including some very objectifying phrases- some implying her body isn't even her own). Once her wings are finally fully grown, despite how many ropes and chains she's broken already, the angel stands no chance against the black, slimey, crude-oil like sludge that pours all over her as it leaks from the ceiling. She furiously tries to rip off her finish tights and break the shackles binding her feet, but the dark sludge profusely keeps leaking into the room as her cries remain unheard- forever caged this once beautiful angel must stay.