they call me mother, cry out for me to pray for their salvation, endless hungry mouths needing to be fed, eating and eating and eating my flesh. in a sense it’s innocence. they dig their dirt caked nails into my satin white dress, the same one they put me in when they forced me to the altar, so they could revere me and crown me with the title “saint”, exalting each bitter tear i shed for the son they had killed. in the gold altar i sit, forever seething, forever cradling my dead child, forever frozen in time. they call me lady of sorrows, holy virgin and queen of heaven, all of those names i never asked for but in the end all i was is a child who never had a choice, my voice snuffed out, and i was forced to bear the burden of divinity. they’ll never tell you this in the scriptures, but that day, i died on the cross too