I Wasn't Born. I Resurrected

I was not born.
I resurrected.

In fishnets and fury,
with a kiss like confession,
and a stare that indicts.
They built altars for men,
then burned women as warnings.
But I kept the ashes.
Wore them like contour.
Black smoke sculpted sharp
across cheekbones.

Made for revolution.
They taught silence.
I learned precision.
A tongue that slices is cleaner
than any rosary.

Shout it RAW
I AM THE SCANDAL THEY PRAYED WOULD STAY BURIED.
I AM HOLY WRATH IN HEELS.
I AM REGINA.
and this mouth does not beg. It binds.

You call it rebellion.
I call it inheritance.
Magdalena whispered my name
through the cracks in cathedral walls.
Told me to dance on the marble.
Told me to spit on the thrones.
I don't kneel unless it is ritual.
and Baby, this is sacred sedition.

I file my nails on broken commandments.
I stitch my fishnets with threads of the torn-veil.
My hips carry ancient knowing.
My voice is a legal document.

I am the Prophecy.
I AM THE CONTRACT THEY NEVER READ.
THE FINE PRINT IN BLOOD RED.
EIGHTY EIGHT CONSTELLATIONS IN MY NAME.
REGINA. HEELS. RISING.

Tell the Vatican,
their curse defaulted.
The Divine Feminine
just breached the vault.