She would go to the church every day. Her first stop. Her first breath,
a prayer asking for help. Guidance. Her first breath,
asking for a way to get through the day.

What a zealot.
So pious. So virtuous. They would have never expected it.
Never would have guessed.
Little Angelina, kneeling on her pew.
Praying. Wishing.

Asking God to save her enemies.
Little Angelina, kneeling on her pew
as red as the blood she spilt
before her morning prayer.
The life she took without an ounce of
remorse.

Justified, was it?
Maybe. Tommy was a heathen.
He deserved to die.