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Body Fat is Not an Offering

I am a martyr,
Just as you were on your own
Execution day
When they first came with stones and sticks
And candle wicks
They burned you at the stake, not
A cross,
And no nails held your skin to the flames,
Only you did that
Your body kindling the rage in their veins
That licked up your legs
And tickled your
A mockery of how love warms

I am a martyr

But I know not of sacrifice,
And if you asked me what my crime was
I'd ask you to pay a
Blind ransom
There's no devotion in that, and I'm scared,
You can't compare
Martyrdom to anorexia nervosa; if you try
You won't find God
On the receiving end of that burnt offering, no,
I don't know my crime
But it'll show itself
In time,
And you're a martyr but I held the candle to
My own stake —
Everything, you see, was at stake

I am a martyr

But you won't find me among saints,
I'll be
Waiting with fire in my lungs and
Where I imagined them stoning me and picking
My skin bare
And when I'm naked and skeletal in front of
The witness stand, in front
Of the mirror,
I know I'm not a martyr, no . . .

I am the worst kind of heretic.

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