Oh, Christian women—what piteous creatures. They are caged songbirds with clipped wings, servants of god and slaves of the patriarchy. Some of them are cruel but others are just victims, girls raised with obedience always in mind, their development stunted by a diet of pleasant lies and a library limited to biblical passages. They won’t be free until death, until they get their angel-wings and step into the promised land they’ve wasted their lives dreaming about—let’s hope, for their sake, that such a land even exists. I empathize with these women, I do. Some of them, at least: my heart breaks for the Tammy Faye Bakkers of the world, while my blood boils over the Girl Defineds. I only have so much pity for Christians, I have to spend it wisely.

Christian women don’t know what to do with me: the skeptic, the Linda Blair child, the girl who smirks at their verses and rolls her eyes at their statues of Daddy Jesus. Atheist or Satanist, pagan or witch, I am other, and that frightens them. The power of the lord compels them to wave their crucifix at me, either to make me disappear or in feeble hopes of converting me. It does neither. I am Sister Mary Eunice, possessed by the devil or possessed by myself, taunting Jesus as he hangs from the wall, singing “You Don’t Own Me” while tossing a rosary—dressed in a blood-red, skintight dress that’d drive any man to sin. Hell, I’d go even further than Sister Mary by flipping off the stone Jesus with both hands and a lascivious grin. Come at me, Christ. Do your damnedest.

Truth be told, I doubt Christ would care very much about my wanton display, but I know that his followers would be outraged. You can’t disrespect their false prophets, their mock messiahs, their bearded freaks. They won’t allow it, not when they’ve devoted their days to making him proud, to living the miserable little lives he died to defend. Christians adore their martyrs: it’s a faith of self-sacrificing, wherein unhappiness is a virtue, the price you must pay in this life for happiness in the next. Christians love Jesus most of all, but only because they think he loved them—so much so that he got nailed to a cross to atone for their sins. And now, millennia later, Christians wear that cross around their necks like it’s a positive symbol, his brutal killing a badge of honor they’re determined to show off: after all, he died for them. Maybe the women of Christianity—Jesus’s daughters and wives and mistresses—jab those crosses up their cunts too, their eyes glazed with groupie devotion. Just the love-crazed disciples of superstar Jesus Christ.

But I am not a fan of this ancient, swaggering rock star, nor am I a member of the fandom his existence spawned. I don’t count myself among the hordes of sweaty, mindless stans who come to his concert and beg for him to sign their bibles, the devotees who swear the man can walk on water and heal lepers and perform acts of magic that would rival Mindfreak’s. If these people want to worship him as their savior—and his alleged father as their creator—then they may, though I ask them to keep their bibles closed while I’m in the room, and their patronizing smiles to a minimum. They can think they’re on the road to heaven while I’m hightailing it to hell, but such thoughts should go unspoken, fantasies that are better left to their favorite book of fables. I’ll take my chances with Satan, roll the dice on hell. They can keep their repressive promised land, full of hymns and hypocrisy. The fact of the matter is that I know their secret.

Christianity is very powerful: it kills Christians.