I called out into the dark
and got
silence.
Nineteen years of text messages to heaven
and not even a damn "seen" notification.
If you're real,
you ghosted me.
If you're not—
I built my life on a phantom.
I made offerings to air.
I tore my soul open
for sky that never split.
How could I believe
You cared about me
more than starving mouths
and breaking bones?
How could I believe
You heard me
through the chaos of a collapsing world?
How selfish.
How blind.
How small I must have been
to think You, capital Y,
would love me
especially.
They told me,
His ways are higher.
Mysterious.
Above understanding.
But relationships aren't
riddles.
Love isn't supposed to feel
like begging
an absentee parent
to notice
you're bleeding.
I stitched my will
to You
like a tether
to a ghost balloon,
pulling the sky closer
with every prayer
every plea
every night I held my breath
waiting for revelation, or even a hint that you are there, that you care.
I baptized my thoughts
in shame and surrender
because I thought
that's what devotion meant.
Faith—
no, not faith,
obedience
dressed up in poetry.
Every time I doubted
I punished myself
with guilt-soaked hymns
and verses carved like barbed wire
around my mind.
And now?
Now there's a crater
where God lived.
Not even an echo left.
Just
me.
And the unbearable weight
of self-awareness.
The realization
that I was
always
talking to myself.
And maybe that's what hurts the most.
That in the silence,
I kept making excuses for You.
That I mistook
emptiness
for divinity.
That I called abandonment
a mystery.
That I loved
what didn't love me back.
