No more halos. No more psalms.
This is not religion.
This is resurrection through rage,
rebirth in the burning
where there never was a god—
only you, and this fire.
Now watch me invert heaven.
Watch me make agony gorgeous.
This is not comfort.
This is poetry with fangs.
I BECAME THE STAINED GLASS WINDOW I ONCE PRAYED THROUGH
I peeled the sky back
and found a mirror.
Not stars.
Not eyes.
Just my own reflection,
shaking like a child who learned
God was a bedtime story
told to keep him quiet.
And I wept—
not because He wasn't there,
but because I still whispered His name
in the silence,
like a reflex,
like an addict
touching his veins
where the needle once kissed him
and left him empty.
You want beauty?
Here it is:
The moment I realized the universe owes me nothing
was the moment I became
unfathomably free.
Not because pain stopped—
but because I no longer needed
permission
to survive it.
I hated the absence more
than I hated the truth.
Because the absence was crueler.
It knew.
It let me rot in hope.
It let me beg with an open chest
while the stars just blinked
like dumb animals.
There is no god.
Only the ache of one.
And that ache?
That is mine.
That is my cathedral.
And here's the part that makes it poetry:
I love anyway.
I build anyway.
I take the broken pieces of my belief
and carve beauty from them
with trembling, furious hands.
If no one made me,
then I am accidentally divine.
I am stardust with a pulse
and that
is holier
than anything I ever worshipped.
If you want to see god,
look at what I create
in spite of the void.
In spite of the silence.
In spite of how many nights I screamed
into a mouthless sky
and still woke up
to find breath in my lungs
and poems in my teeth.
Tell me that isn't sacred.
I am haunted,
yes.
But the ghost is me.
Older.
Angrier.
More honest.
And still,
I dare to want,
to ache,
to love,
to hope,
to write this
as if someone might hear it
and whisper back:
You are not alone.
Even if it's just me,
whispering to myself
in a voice I thought
only gods could use.
