Mad Donna - Her Catechism:
She Offered Her Throat to a Choir of Teeth. A Mirror of Her Mythology: At once she is the elevation towards God and the descent towards Satan. The Madonna is an archetype of sacred suffering, and Mad Donna when sanctity snaps - when the divine mother claws through her own iconography, lipstick smeared over relics, nails chipped from clawing open heaven.
Prologue: The Peril of Invitation - Before You Open This Sacred Poem: They told me not to read it. Said ink like these stains deeper than blood. That once the words root themselves in you, you'll speak truths no one asked to hear and dream in languages that leave scorch marks. This is not scripture for saints. It won't cleanse you. It won't forgive you. It will break you open in all the places you were told to keep.
Genesis: In the beginning, there was want. And the want took form, and the form bled. She sings in languages no god dares answer, and every note is a shudder beneath my ribs. I bring her offerings - spit, shame, and a locket full of desire.
Mad Donnas Ritual Invocation: By salt and silence, I summon The One Who Named Me. By collar and covenant, by whip and holy wand I beckon The Lawful ****. By red light and gaze unbroken, I call The Witness. By blade and bloom, I conjure rosaries, stilettos and fish net *****, hungry blow jobs in back-alley boulevards with smeared lipstick and fog. I invoke Thee by ink, by bruise, by balm - By mouth and fractured moan, by leather rhythm and breath held taut, I summon The Bound Pulse. By absence aged to ache, I summon The One Who Made Me Wait. By gloves of ghost and reverence, I call The Cold Benediction. By kiss like smoke, I call The Saint of Strikes in tongues of want, and blotched mascara running and moaned in calling chants.
Take this throat I offer - willing. Take this want I carry - not to cage, but to worship.
She doesn't kneel because she's weak. She kneels because gravity calls her name. Each time she descends, the world adjusts its axis. She is the hymn they tried to censor from the psalms. She comes unlabeled, not divine, not ****** a mother-sized glitch in the system all blush and fury, blood in her breath - birthmark shaped like a *******, to sanctity, to every stained glass lie.
She wakes with velvet bruises forming constellations, maps only she can read. Liturgy inked across inner thighs, sung in whispers, in commands, in moans. Not silence - but obedience that chooses itself. She smiles bleeding saying "look" and she burns like ants on fire. Her gospel is submission scratched into stained porcelain bent bone and joint. She wears her ribbons like relics - desires of twilight like a crucifix. She is every Magdalene they redacted, every witch they kissed before the burning. She bends; it is not for mercy. It is ritual. It is a structure built from ache. It is salt on the tongue like sacrament.
Revelation: "Take me." She says in revelation. "Use me." Licking the floor in celebration. For every **** a psalm. Every kiss and **** a plea. Every leaking vein the Amen she never says out loud. She offers her wrists. Her mouth. Her throat. Her **** feet *** and wagging tongue not in shame, but as altar. She lets them write their names across her spine in *** spit and blood.
She doesn't look away remembering. Submission isn't collapsed but construction with the lights turned off. It's trust. It's theater. “It’s her hips shaped like a whispered prayer, and her feet curled like roots gripping the edge of longing.
Sometimes they cry when it's over. She doesn't. She gathers the sobs like souvenirs. She leaves the room and is grateful for the pleasures of disgrace.
They called her holy. They called her horror. She calls it catharsis. We call her Mad Donna. And none of us walked away untouched.
She kneels having chosen the blade and whip. And will not rise until every blood drenched tease has marked her hunger.
She made a chapel out of corsets and teeth; stained glass and balconies built from used condoms and a confession of shame then stretched her legs like she just got home.
I asked where the altar was, she pointed to her mouth and said "good - start here." She prayed in gags shaped like gurgles, groans and weeping. She taught me how to give it to her hard, so loud even guilt had to shut up.
Mad Donna - The Calling Cracked and Craving:
The Thirteen Apostles:
1. Saint Dom - The One Who Named Her and didn't ask. He gave her a name that tasted like crazy and stayed like smoke. She wore it. Choked on it. Cumed with it still in her mouth. Her altar - a rusty stage. Her relics - broken mirrors and bitten tongues. Her worshippers - girls with fists in their pockets and men who mistake shame for devotion. "Blessed are the starved, for they shall feast on truth and call it ruin."
2. Saint Lecher - The One with the Collar Leather and laws. He said bow like a vow. She knelt - not because she had to, but because he knew what to do with silence. Her altar - a bathtub full of spoiled perfume. Her relics - wilted garters, corsets stiff with tears. Her congregation - the lovers who stayed too long and forgot how to leave. "Blessed be the discarded, for even ghosts need chapels."
3. Saint Voyer - The One with the Camera, He never touched her. He only watched. Red light. Open legs. He said, "hold still" and she didn't blink for hours. Her altar - a porcelain statue of herself. Her relics - hollowed eyed dolls with scattered limbs. Her followers - mannequins baptized in mothballs and mildew. "Blessed are the virgins, not as purity, but as preservation for rot, for they wither and inherit spiders who build cities in their dust.
4. Saint Sadist - The Knife in the Chapel He carved scripture into her hips with blade's kiss. Every cut was a question. Every scar answered "yes." She didn't bleed. She bloomed. Her altar - a mattress on the floor, threadbare, thrumming. Her relics - laces undone, knuckles kissed raw. Her worshippers - those who learn to love through ache - not to be broken, but to feel themselves change. "Blessed be the bruise where the body remembers and the soul does not flinch."
5. Saint Backwards- The Quiet Mouth Never spoke. Only wrote on mirrors with breath. She read her gospel backward and came forward in tears. Her altar - a padded cell, lined with secrets. Her relics - locked diaries, bitten lips and static. Her followers - the ones who learned that the loudest thing in the world is the thought you never say out loud. "Blessed are the silenced - for they will echo longest."
6.Saint Marks - The One Who Left Marks Fingers dipped in spit, and lust. She wore bruises like confession. Her ribs recited poetry long after he left. Her altar - the sticky floor of confession booths and shadowed basements. Her relics - crumpled prayers on cocktail napkins. Her devotees - the lost girls, the late-night prophets, the ones who preach with lipstick half-smeared and fists still bleeding. "Blessed are the wrecked, for they see God - where others look away."
7. Saint ******* Girl - The Mirror-Twin Looked just like her. Kissed like a dare. She fingered herself through her and forgot which soul was whose. Her altar - a velvet-lined pillbox. Her relics - syringes, stilettos, poison-tipped prayers. Her faithful - the ones who tasted bitterness and called it salvation. "Blessed be the viper for she teaches the hand to tremble before it touches."
8. Saint Flagellation - The One with the Belt and no questions. No safe words. Just rhythm with writhing and something holy in the ache. She thought Opus Dei. Her altar - a locked cabinet of fingerbones and names scratched out. Her relics: faded obituaries, collarbones, forgotten lullabies. Her mourners - everyone who loved something that never loved back. "Blessed are the brittle for they remember how to break without bending."
9. Saint Hard to Get - The One Who Made Her Wait Hours. Days. Forever. She begged once. Then never again. When he finally arrived, she licked the floor clean, working him up. Her altar - a throne of side-gazes and unsent texts. Her relics - unmatched earrings, scorched Valentine cards, one-liners honed like daggers. Her worshippers - just survivors who lit the match and walked away. "Blessed are the scorned, for they will outlive your myths."
10. Saint Hygiene - The One with the Gloves Touchless. Sterile. Surgical. Reverent. He disassembled her with perversions and called it love. Her altar - a mattress that smelled like miracles and musk. Her relics - polaroids, fever-dream verses, glitter in unspeakable places. Her pilgrims - the ones who mistook sweat for baptism and danced anyway. "Blessed are the burning, for they will taste God in their own skin."
11. Saint Cold Shoulder - The One Who Didn't Stay He kissed her like a promise. Left like a thief. She kept the saliva mixed with his filth under her tongue and between her legs. Her altar - a single chair in a locked room. Her relics - half-erased poems and breaths held too long. Her flock - those who never felt safe in the light but followed her anyway. "Blessed are the dim for they are never blinded."
12. Saint Sadist - The One Who Named Pain "Prayer" He struck with a black strap and waited for the amen. She never gave it. She gave more instead. Her altar - the back step of a locked house. Her relics - old voicemail passwords, blankets that still smell like someone who left. Her faithful - those who bear the weight and never drop it. "Blessed are the stayers, for they know what it costs and pay it anyway."
13. Saint *** Slave - The One She Made Herself The last and only. Built from shards and wounds, stitched with tears. She touched herself like testimony. She whispered, "Take me, own me. "I live in the basement of your mind" Her altar - Stained **** magazines. Her relics - burnt joints and a mottled yellow soiled mattress. Her faithful - those who wait in line stroking themselves. "Blessed is she, the last saint because she never needed to be first. She ends the line but never ends the love.
Epilogue: After the Last Page Is Turned, I read it. And it read me, too - line by line, bone by bone. The ink didn't stain. It was rewritten. I came to the end thinking I'd be wiser. Instead, I felt stranger than ever. Stripped of certainty. Heavy with knowing. They warned it would mark me. They didn't say it would leave me longing for more. Now, when I speak, the truth hums like static beneath every syllable. When I dream, the words still whisper - not finished, not finished…And neither am I.
Madonna- Mad Donna