I want to be numbered among the heretics

It’s the heretic who’s out without her jacket,
skirt above the knees, showing her bruises,
saying, I dare someone to say it’s okay. Try it.

The heretic won’t settle out of court,
dress suicide as martyrdom,
praise the impotence of silence.

It’s the heretic who spits out the communion wine
if it tastes of poison

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