In the morning i put on my war paint.
I draw lines beneath my eyes with charcoal,
Made of broken bones, cooked above a fire.
Infused with the screams of the dead,
The screams of my mother as she said no,
The screams of my sisters as they fled.
I paint blood across my lips,
Stained with my own crimson color,
Pulled from my veins each day I step upon the field of war.
I dust the sands beneath my feet across my cheeks,
Filled with grounded remains of my daughters,
Who were too young to survive the fight.
I blink against the graves of my sisters,
Painting my lashes in their deaths.
Outside, my enemies await.
But for a moment, I hesitate.
And I urge my death to do the same.