She used to believe She was God.
She could give birth to any being; alive or dead,
Or perhaps never alive in the first place.
She thought She could make them dance and scream the way she desired,
These things that could not live without her.
But she was wrong.
Because the real God
Possessed her mind one day and shook her,
Until her thoughts bled and her right hand lay limp against empty pages.
Not a God, no. But not far from it.
A disciple? a prophet? Is she the fallen angel?
Chosen by the almighty blanket to be the puppet,
Infecting those who had been born by Him -
These things that could live without her.