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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required The chapel swallowed my name whole, left it hanging in the rafters with the smoke and the blackened wings of moths who craved the candlelight with a burning passion. I had learned young how to pray, kneel and bow to the gods my aunts worshipped, wondering always how their knees never bled like mine. I learned quickly how to hold my voice in the back of my throat, how to make my silence sound beautiful. There is a fox-heart pacing beneath my ribs, red-furred and rabid with psalms. There are forests growing in my throat, roots splitting the hymns apart stone by stone. Even the trees outside the chapel bent away from the door that night. Somewhere deep in the valley, a fox cried out like a warning bell. The floorboards groaned beneath him, old wood speaking the language of storms, and the candle flame trembled every time he said my name. Dusk caught blue in the windows, thin as bruises beneath the broken glass and skin. Even the saints along the walls turned their eyes away. when he touched me, The crows went quiet. Even the river held its breath. And I— good, sainted thing that I was— lay there like a field after harvest, stripped down to dirt and bone praying for some righteous flood to carry me elsewhere. It never came. So I made divinity out of and into myself. I stitched my halo from briars, pressed foxglove to my tongue, bathed in the creek where the dead deer sleep, their pearl-white ribs gleaming like cathedral windows beneath the water. I buried every girl I used to be beneath an oak tree split by lightning. She deserved a proper funeral. She deserved mourning bells, not his hands clutching her softness like a thief testing doors at dusk. Now when I sing, the wolves come closer. Now when I pray, it sounds like thunder dragging itself across the hills. And if he saw me tonight— mud-crowned and feral, with heaven burning blue beneath my skin— he would call me wicked. And he would be right. Because I have learned there is no fury more sacred than that of a woman who finally believes her rage is the only holy thing in this wretched world
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