She

There is an unsettling thunder in her gait,
An outright mockery in her smirk;
Her half-closed eyes speak of a defiance
That cannot be defeated.
She pinches pain in those
Tight-lipped smiles of hers,
And burns all hate in her retinas.

There is a whirlpool dancing on her fingertips,
And God forbid, mankind be exposed to
The hell raised by the quiet.
What weapons could ever destroy her?
She is the war herself.
Armed with a silent endurance,
Clutched close to her bosom.

There is more steel in her constitution
Than your treacherous daggers.
A child of the Phoenix,
She is immune to your poison.
Better keep a count of every wound you engrave
On her skin
For she is not one to owe debts.

If you see victory in the blood
Dripping out of her injuries,
My darling, be prepared to burn
From it’s blazing heat.

Bask in the comforting warmth of her empathy,
When you still can.
Or make a death wish
If you so desire.

Yours truly,

The Ink Warrior.