THE SAINT
To critique the romanticisation of female suffering, obedience, and purity within society and religion.
I learned holiness early,
knees together,
voice lowered,
rage folded small as linen.
They crowned me with patience,
white gloves,
a smile pinned neatly,
through the mouth.
I was praised most,
when I disappeared gracefully,
when hunger looked elegant,
when grief made no sound.
Desire was sanded down,
to a polite shimmer.
I built the chapel myself,
by careful brick,
I lit candles,
for every part of me,
they asked to die quietly.
Still, they said saint,
as if it were a gift.
But sanctity costs,
it asks a woman,
to bleed beautifully,
and thank the blade.
