Braid your hair and hug your mother's photograph tight,
Flashbacks, bitter-sweet memories, old friends, lovers and comrades.
The battlefield awaits you, needs you, grieves you,
now is your final chance to fight.

Holy, we are born. Holy, is our lives. Holy, is our love. Holy, is our sins. Holy, is our suffering. Holy, is our salivation. Graced Mother bestow us with suffering, cleanse us of divinity.

girls like me are built small
some might say fragile, even
but our hands are tough and strong
always clutching broad swords and shields
our lips: ruby red, from lipstick and/or taking the occasional wrong turn once in a while
our hips: like vases for flowers you sometimes forget to water when you're too busy (somewhere along the line i became more of a wildflower than a wallflower though)
our noses: so cute and buttonlike and perfect for those little lost and found kisses
our mouths: hopefully or hopelessly unabashed, through speech and silence
our willpower can crumble mountains
the dexterity of our hands tries as best as it can to reach you
but sometimes you're just too far away
on top of hillcrests in timbuktu
or in another woman's arms
or lost in your own thought
but it's alright, i laugh and you can still see the glimmer in my eyes even in the shadows you left behind

i am stronger than this