You ask for my prayers
and I am left
with the air sucked out of my lungs—
not in awe,
but in grief.
Not because I do not want to pray—
but because I do.
And that want feels
like betrayal.
How do I stand before heaven
on behalf of someone
who has already
been kneeling for years?
Bones bruised from faith,
voice cracked from calling out
to a silence that answers with more
waiting.
Why me?
Why this mouth?
Why now?
When theirs
has shaped itself into praise
through pain,
has begged
with every vowel of their being
only to be met
with delay, or worse—
denial.
Do my words weigh more?
Do I carry something unseen
in my breath
that their suffering did not earn?
I don't understand.
It breaks me
to be asked
to speak life
when they have been screaming it
through gritted teeth
for generations.
I might be missing the point.
Maybe this isn't a transaction.
Maybe it's solidarity.
Or maybe
it's just cruelty
we try to dress
in hope's torn clothes.
But damn—
my friends are hurting.
They are in pain.
And if my voice
can somehow
hold the ceiling up
for one more second,
I will pray.
But not without this ache.
Not without this question
burning behind every word.
Why do You wait to answer
those who needed You
yesterday?
