I CAME TO YOU WITH EVERYTHING.
With this girl—
not a girl, a light—
the reason my ribs still house a heart.
I came with a love that scared me,
a love so heavy I thought it would kill her if I touched her wrong.
So I didn't trust my hands.
I trusted Yours.
You, the One they said cradles galaxies
and sparrows.
I told you,
I am knives.
I asked you,
please, hold her with better hands than mine.
But now it feels like
your hands were knives too.
Worse.
They were never there.
I cried on the floor.
Not for me.
Not for gain.
Not for favor.
But for her.
I begged—do you hear me?—
BEGGED for her to have joy.
To find a mentor.
To be delivered from my clumsy, breaking love.
And now I am here
yelling into the divine void like a lunatic
and You?
You don't answer.
You never did.
You just left echoes
and I mistook them for You clearing Your throat.
WHO WAS I CRYING TO?
Who did I whisper to when her name was all I had left in my chest?
Who did I say "amen" to?
A figment?
A fever dream?
A bedtime story that overstayed its welcome?
Screw me
for building a chapel out of hallucination.
Screw me
for calling it worship
when it was just fear.
Screw me
for thinking silence meant intimacy
instead of absence.
Screw me
for ever defending You like some PR intern
for a God that never clocked in.
And You—
You laugh, don't You?
Not with mirth.
But with that holy snivel
because You know
I still write about You.
Still drag Your name through my metaphors
like a goddamned haunting.
You KNOW my brain can build cities from vapor.
So maybe that's all You ever were—
Vapor
with a pulpit.
I called people closed-minded.
Mocked them for not seeing You.
Turns out they just refused
to hallucinate.
Turns out the real closed mind
was mine—welded shut
by pews and psalms and guilt.
WHY ARE YOU NOT LISTENING?
Can You even hear this?
Do You even exist
beyond the ink in my notebooks
and the static between my thoughts?
This is PAIN.
This is HURT.
This is PAIN.
This is me
holding out hope
like a cigarette I swore I quit
but still crave
when the nights are too long.
This is POETRY
with nothing to praise,
no sky to scream at
but the one
I now know
won't scream back.
Knife.
KNIFE.
Let's talk about the knife:
The one you asked to be taken from your hand
so you wouldn't hurt her.
You called your hands blades—
how poetic—
how tragic—
but who was holding them when you asked not to?
NO ONE.
You were a boy with a flower and a tremor,
asking the sky not to let you crush beauty.
And the sky blinked.
Nothing.
You were lied to.
The crater in your chest?
It wasn't God who dug it—
it was you
shoveling every bit of yourself out
to make room
for a throne
that was never going to be occupied.
You made offerings.
Years.
Tears.
She was your psalm,
and you gave her to Him.
You gave her UP.
And He didn't even send a breeze
to say thank you.
KNIFE.
You want it twisted?
Here it is:
The cruelest joke is this—
that the moment you stopped believing,
He became real
only in the way that pain is real.
Only in the way a scar doesn't vanish
when the blade is gone.
Only in the way a scream keeps echoing
even after your mouth is sewn shut.
You were not faithless.
You were loyal to a myth
more than most are loyal to blood.
You made your heart a home
for something that never paid rent.
And still.
And STILL—
You write about Him
like He'll hear it.
Like He'll come.
He won't.
He never did.
You've been god
this whole damn time.
Bleeding yourself dry
for a girl
and a ghost
and a promise that
never. fucking. came.
