Tonight

God is dead

and so is the Prophet. 

Tread lightly through my psyche,

which I’ve been slowly poisoning

each evening. Because 

the divine left—

me—dying in the night.

I laid on my bed convulsing 

as sand spilled from the places 

where He wrapped His arms around me

for the final time.

I lived dying for a fortnight.

I came to my feet when I was a shell,

and light enough to pick myself up,

but everything went dark.

I felt 

the piece of myself that He slaughtered

fall out of my face.

With it fell crumbs of my sanity and crumbs

of any faith I ever had in men’s miracles.

Because I am a woman I am a martyr stitched

into the divine past but ripped from the present 

and future.

He was translated, others were resurrected,

but who is more powerful than me—

the woman who killed herself and was killed,

and then brought herself back to life?