Wicked

I'm wicked
because I'm a woman,
a black rose
with thorns
instead of thighs
and devilish desires
carved into
my lips,my hands,my eyes.
I'm wicked
by nature
and by man's prophetic
sigh,
for he is the sole to decide
whether I dance
with the angels
or slowly burn on a pyre.
I'm wicked,
though I'm a saint
when circumstances conspire,
I wear the red dress
the same way in which
I cover myself with white's
holly attire.
I'm wicked
because I bow to no one
but my womb
and demand the world
to cherish
both blossom and ooze.
I'm wicked
and my faith's
a crippled string to which
sinners and children and judgments
clutch
without a flinch.
I'm wicked
when I buy a flower,
when I bite my lover's mouth,
when I craft myself
from yesterday's remains
and hopes of a new start.
I'm wicked
because my hair is on fire
and I won't let you
tint this flesh,
this most unreal desire
sprouting inside of a weary head.
I'm wicked
because I'm a woman
and there's nothing more
to be said.