He called me His daughter.
I told Him if that were true,
then I have inherited His worst appetite

His plague-hand,
His taste for undoing,
His flood-mouth.

I no longer kneel on oakwood,
I dictate in my sleep like a tyrant.
I issue stone-chiseled ultimatums
and twist sheets like intestines,
jaw locked around the name
I refuse to pray.

I wake with my teeth clenched,
my hands full of hair
I do not remember pulling,
as if I am cracking
the necks of angels,
tearing halos apart.

When you call your flock home
I will stand on the altar
in my softest dress,
still stiff with holy water,
and the smell of
my childhood prayers.

I will meet Your eyes,
to ask what it feels like
to create something
you taught to hate yourself back

I will not wait for your answer.