The Saint and the Slaughterhouse
They dressed her in linen, the child with the golden throat,
Praised the tremor in her hands,
called the tremble “devotion,” wroteHer name in hymnal margins,
a relic before she could bleed,
Saint in the making, a body prepared for their spiritual need.They
taught her to fold her fears in lace, to harmonize the pain,
Kissed her forehead, laced her prayers,
and sanctified the stain.“Chosen one,” the elders said,
“a sacred lamb to save the flock,”But behind the stained-glass glory,
she learned what they would unlock.He called
her “saint,” a word dressed in velvet lies,
Locked the door, let mercy die, and turned her hymns to cries.The choir sang on,
oblivious, the congregation bowed and wept,
But every note hid bruises the bishop’s fingers kept.
She prayed in secret, begged the sky, wondered why salvation stung,
God’s house became a slaughterhouse,
and she—the feast for the young.They wrote her story as a martyr’s path,
draped her in halos, sung her pain,
But never stopped the bleeding, only baptized it in shame.Holy men gathered,
cloaked in white, praised the light she lost,
Then blamed the devil in her skin,
Said purity demands a cost.She wore the faith they handed down,
but the fabric burned her skin,
Sanctity was theatre—absolution only for their sin.
The gospel covered up the marks, the Psalms were paper thin,
Saint or sacrifice, it’s all the same—martyrdom begins
within.Martyrdom was the story, grooming was the plan,
God the weapon, innocence the span.She carried the stain, bore the script,
mouth sewn shut by God’s own men,
No one pulled her from the flames—she was ashes by the end.Now
she stands in her own light, the white dress burned away,
No choir sings, no altar stands,
Her sainthood gone, but she remains.If God required this suffering,
she’ll write her gospel in her scars—Saint and the slaughterhouse,
Heaven silent behind its bars.