She is the walking dead. No matter who
she was before, you must burn her with flame
because the dead can never be the same
as they were once. And she will make you, too,
a thing that rots and staggers. Take a blade
and cut her head off. And ignore her moan.
She let them bite her. Left you all alone.
What sort of love was it that she displayed
by dying? Rotting? Soon her lovely face
will fall away; and soon her matted hair
will drop in clumps. You never knew despair
before you saw her die and rise. No trace
of her is left in it. And through your head
this thought runs– though I live, I too am dead.