Let's strip the soul to bone and spit in the face of fantasy.
Let's make God flinch—
or if He won't flinch, let's make His absence scream louder than His name ever did.
Child that licked dust
off the altar
thinking it was communion.
bit into holy bread
and found rot.
Found mold behind the curtain
and termites in the ark.
bowed anyway.
Kissed the feet of fiction.
They said,
"You must believe to see."
*insert person* said,
I'd rather gouge my eyes out than lie again.
Because the truth is—
I saw NOTHING.
I hallucinated light in a blackout.
I made warmth from frostbite.
I named the silence "Father"
because it hurt less than admitting
no one was there.
Delusion.
That was the real miracle.
That I survived on myths
that wouldn't feed a corpse.
That I prayed to drywall
and got goosebumps and called them revelation.
I mistook my own breaking
for the Spirit moving.
I called panic conviction,
and trauma repentance.
I folded my sanity
like a letter to heaven
and stamped it with faith
only to find
I'd mailed it to myself.
Return to sender.
God unknown.
Address: imagination.
They say He's omnipresent.
But He's not even present.
Not in the wars.
Not in the wombs that empty too soon.
Not in the eyes of the child
that learned to say "amen"
before they could say "help."
What kind of architect builds a world
with a thousand ways to suffer
and no blueprint for salvation?
What kind of god
lets His name become a leash?
Why did I let it wrap around my neck,
tighten with every doubt,
and call it obedience?
I kissed the whip and thanked it for discipline.
I bled and called it cleansing.
I shattered and called it divine refinement.
And now?
I sit in the ruins
of every sanctuary I built in my mind,
sifting through ashes,
looking for a footprint,
a fingerprint,
a whisper,
a fucking breath.
Nothing.
Not even the smell of divinity.
I HATE MYSELF,
I AM LOSING IT AND CANNOT LIVE IN A WORLD WITHOUT HIM,
OR A WORLD WITHOUT.
