Cempazuchitl flowers bloom for every candle lit in my name. My harvest triples with each turning season. The faithful gather beneath my sweet, sickle-shaped smile. Their wishes are simple, birthed from hopelessness. Those you turned away with your prejudices, raising the bar so none but the rich can meet it.

That is why the roses no longer grow at your feet.

That is why you’ve come to me, isn’t it?

Your mouth parts, spitting white ash smoke. It slithers upwards, a fitting shroud to match my wedding dress. This wish is too vast, for you and for me. What about that woman who wept on her knees, asking for her daughter’s soul? You did not listen, so she came to me, asking to satisfy that spiritual violence imposed on her soul by injustice.

Sometimes, they bleach the same tired trees and burn down my altars but my harvest grows—with skin and ink, blood and smoke. I turn none away, no matter their sins. They’re not looking for salvation; a lexicon of crimes they do in my name cradled in my arms like a babe.

Beneath lost skies and wayward faithful, even you,
Virgencita de Guadalupe, come to me and partake in the
offerings.