She has postcards from false prophets lining a shoebox under her bed and awakens every morning with lips slicked in slogans.
The scent of insurgency surrounds her like a skin, attracting bees and tender revolutionaries not yet ready to shave.
Will they really follow her blindly into the awaiting crosshairs of history’s firing squad?
Will she brazenly skewer their hearts on the bayonette of rhetoric until her coup is complete?
Ghosts of guerilla grafitti appear in the dust of her windowsills, the drapery rods hung with silken kimonos to hide her guilt from the confessional of the sun.
How did such a dedicated Catholic girl slip so easily into the holster of an outlaw?
How did the world implode so quickly on the detonation of mere words?