In the early morning light I almost believed I was holy, that my poor woman body had been absolved of its womanly sins and I could hear voices like the Maid, the schizophrenic of Orleans. But I am not schizophrenic and I know the voices are only in my head, all they tell me is that God is dead and life is meaningless and the world is going to end someday, all borrowed words from the great poets who swallowed my poetry alive. All I hear are borrowed words, I have forgotten how to think for myself. I am only a poor woman, like all other women I am made of womanly flesh and ashes, our skins burn with heresy and fever dreams. We only wish for something beautiful enough to die for.
