the lines by her eyes read how she parted the red sea.
her fingertips rub your scalp like she’s writing a testament to every thursday night in your studio apartment.
her voice at 5:54AM will bring you to your knees faster than any choir medley could.
she will ask you to dinner over text, and you will tattoo it on the inside of your eyelids,
skin bleeding,
but every dream has a home inside your head,
a prophecy set in your bedsheets.

you were never quite a righteous woman,
but you’d get baptized in her bathtub,
for there is no deity perfect enough nor cruel enough
to speak her into existence.