Were you not told to never bite the hand that feeds you?
For years I helped your injured, healed your people,
You know many who know of this as true.
And I had hoped, foolishly, that it put me as standing equal,

That my womanhood need not be proven before a steeple.
That I would be respected by my skills alone,
Without my curiosity considered wrongful
Or having to bow before your morphed God to atone

For ‘sins’ that the world around us has outgrown.
Everything is poisonous when not in moderation,
It is not immoral simply because it is unknown,
I refuse to be subject to your medieval infatuation.

If you wish for me to turn to ash, to burn by Hell’s fire–
Trust me when I say, I won’t be the only one dying from my pyre.