Mary Magdalene

I’d bite the hand that feeds, so they don’t see what bad decisions I’ve got hiding under my tongue. Still, they pry my jaw open, unsuspecting of my luciferian leanings. I am the enemy, after all. A wolf in black sheep’s clothing—never quite pure enough, a stain of sin covering even my best intentions.

I’d turn them to stone, so they don’t feel the coldness of my touch. Still, they grab me by the hand and look me in my eyes, unknowing of my medusian nature. I am the villain, after all. A woman scorned—always too bitter to taste, too sharp to touch. There is no hell that is hotter than the rage carried in my soul.

I’d anoint their feet in perfume and wash them with my curls, so they know that I still love them. And they still love me, unbothered by the magdalenian muse that kneels before them. We’re all sinners, after all. All brokenhearted, all misguided—never quite straight and narrow, but always trying.