War is her first love,
And death is her mistress.
Sitting in fire and raping
What few flames dare to burn.
Licking at the wounds
Of the deadest of the dead,
Her veins are frozen
And her heart is made of ice.
Sipping on the blood of swine,
And slitting her wrists
Of the teeth of her father,
Her triumph is a messy one.
Stefanie Fontker
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/serial-lover/
