Somehow nothing in this land is proud,
anymore.
Somehow nothing in this
damned desert
is sacred anymore.
And somehow it's ok
to shoot children if their eyes are red.
Red, red, red.
And sand and hell and screams
(Fuck, another man down)
bitter, bitter thoughts
and she hopes to hell there's regret behind them.
Her hair
is stringy
dirty, filthy
bleached bone white
by the desert sun
that eats everything.
Everything, everything.
(Is she going insane?)
There's blood in it too.
And she can't wash it out with water.
And nothing will wash her soul.
She is afraid of becoming used
to the crimson splash
that has inundated this damned desert
she is afraid she will never know anything else.
She once had a name.
Not the name the soldiers give her.
It was pretty. Like glass.
And breakable.
Oh, so breakable.
Shattered.
What does she want?
Food, she guesses.
But can't remember the taste
of anything but sand.
And heat
blood and war.
Of bone white hair caught in her mouth
Is she still alive?
Somehow, she guesses.
Because she is still killing.
Somehow.