I want to be an unholy womxn

One that bleeds out side the margins 

Of what I was deemed I should be 

By patriarchal standards

A witch 

A healer 

A conspirator 

of thought 

and questioning 

Someone God rubs their forehead about

Angels shaking head and giving side eyes

This one.

Unruly 

No obedience 

This one.

Where whispers ensue as she walks in to

the dust elusive pathways of a church 

Seeing souls that lack peace 

Those harboring Lust and Greed behind 

White collars and podiums 

Maybe an unsaved thing 

No communion

No comfort in a religious home

Questioned about my equating to the

parts of God in me.

My God/

looks like me,

carries the vodoo of my father 

espíritus of my grandmother 

the silent savior glow of my mother 

sounds like the boys I have loved

the laugh of sisters

 I have acquired and lost on the way

The santos of opened paths

I want to be a red dressed thing

A black turtleneck disparity 

A ceremonial garb of guides that come to me in dreams 

A proudly Sexual being

Untainted by other’s impurity 

A cursing thing 

Following these psalms and 

relating to little else 

Dressed in gifts

Protected in ancestral prayers 

Filled with crystals

Told off by tarot 

Teeter tottering on faith 

“rituals, are a ritual, are a ritual” - LP

Don’t paint me naive in this blood 

Paint me potent, and wise, and discerning 

and forgiving of these holy men that pr(e)y upon me to be their holy womxn.