The world is resting on the tip of her tongue.

You call her weak but you forget;
she was born of blood and violence,
birthed from the screaming of the ocean
as it wore away the land.

Remember Helen, remember Dido,
remember Medea.

Tell me love is not synonymous with
blood, with destruction.

Tell me that love and war are not the
same words scrambled together.

Tell me she is not the most dangerous;
that she has the ocean in her heart and
pain in her hands.

Tell me she could not drown the whole
world if she wanted to.

Call her weak - I dare you.