she came from the fields with dirt on her knees,
whispers of angels caught in the breeze,
barefoot prophet with fire in her chest—
said god had a plan, said she wouldn’t rest.
she rode like a ghost in silver and flame,
soft voice speaking the loudest name.
boys followed her into blood and gold,
thinking heaven lived in the stories she told.
but they don’t love girls who glow in the dark,
with swords in their hands and light in their hearts.
they called her mad, called her a lie,
tied her to wood and kissed her goodbye.
ashes to saints, smoke to the stars—
a girl touched by god, caught between wars.
now she sings through cathedral stones,
a song of fire, a crown, and bones.
in honor of my joan of arc tattoo, written by me
Lesbihonest 
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