I don’t need the aged finger
of a priest to smudge my forehead
black in order to feel marked.
I don’t need him to say
Remember that thou are dust,
and to dust thou shall return
in order to feel dirty.
I don’t need forty days of fasting
in order to repent.
Every day is Lent for me.
I abstain
from thoughts that lie and harm.
I give up
the urge to give up.
I deny
the dark things the satisfaction.
And cross
that long, hard path from the dead
to the living.

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