trying.

o n e

God.

my mother talks a lot about him. someone who was our savior and died for our sins. someone who more than the average amount believes in. the most famous man to ever live.

he listens to you if you talk closely to him, or at least that's what my mother has told me. if you sit on your knees and press your palms together, with an ever so soft whisper he will hear you. he will hear you and help you, even guide you to where you need to be.

church was never considered a safe haven for me as it is for most. the statue stands tall, nailed to a cross as you are able to talk to him. you mock a light cross against your own body before you pray to him, eyes closed shut and body sitting steadily.

everyone does this when the priest stands quietly, his back to the man who died for him. they hold a holy bible, which is full of the truth as my mother likes to say, and they sit coldly as they listen to an elderly man in a costume speak before them.

people ask me a lot what my religion is and most of the time i never have an answer. how can you believe in something so greatly of you? why would you waste your life selling yourself to something that could just be a myth?

people ask me what my religion is and i answer, "confused."

why can't he hear me, mother?