I left God on read.
One last divine text:
“u up?”
No, I’m not.
I’m tired.
Tired of apologizing for the skin You painted me in,
the bones You broke and blamed me for.
Tired of kneeling with my face in the dirt
while You sip wine from the chalice of my shame
and call it communion.
Tell me, how many times
did I hold my breath through Sunday sermons,
hoping the holy water would drown me
before the preacher told me
my love was a sin,
my lipstick an abomination,
my body a battleground
You set on fire
and then judged for burning?
I prayed until my knees split,
until my throat blistered,
until I couldn’t tell
if I was sobbing or speaking in tongues.
All I got was static.
No signal in hell.
So I built my own altar.
Lit candles from the ashes of Your silence.
Said my own name like a sacred psalm
and finally listened when it echoed back:
You are not poison.
You are proof.
See, I met a boy once
with my same ghost eyes
and trauma teeth,
and when he called me “Mommy”
I felt more divine than I ever did in any pew.
Felt grace blooming in my ribcage
like violets in a graveyard.
That was worship.
That was real.
I used to beg for blessings
from a bearded absentee landlord in the sky
who kept losing my prayer requests
like sticky notes in a flood.
Now?
I give them to the wind,
to the moon,
to the women who kiss my scars like scripture.
I went no contact with God.
Blocked the burning bush.
Unfollowed the thunder.
Left the holy ghost on seen.
And wouldn’t you know—
the world didn’t end.
I just got louder.
Softer.
Fiercer.
More me.
If that makes me a heretic,
honey,
then I’ll build my own damn heaven
out of glitter, grief,
and girls like me
who were told they could never get in.
We will dance barefoot on broken commandments.
We will sing in the language of survival.
And we will be holy
in spite of it all.
Amen.
