roses are red
Roses are red, the moon doesn’t tell.
I opened the door, and slipped out of myself.
Thorns at my thighs, breath on my skin—
Some kinds of
2
I was not chosen by faith. I built my own altar from want .
Every word I write is a prayer with a pulse. Every image, a confession that got too loud.
I am author, artist, menace, muse — a good girl with holy intentions and filthy execution.
Pay your tithe, and I’ll let you taste devotion.
