Don’t hand me a Bible Like it’s a Band-Aid for a bullet wound. I didn’t lose faith. It lost me. Somewhere between my third suicide note And the silence that followed when no one knocked. I begged with blood. And they answered with verses. I screamed into the ceiling for a response And all I got was dust in my eyes. I’m tired of being told -That my pain is a test. -That god gives the hardest battles to his strongest soldiers. Then why do I feel like collateral damage in a war I never believed in or enlisted for? My therapist asks where it hurts. I say, “Under everything.” She nods like she understands, But writes in blue ink like it’s not red beneath my skin. I’m not a case study. I’m a fire That forgot how to stay lit without burning everything down around me Some days, I want to punch the sun- For rising so confidently When I barely have the strength to sit up. I want to scream at my body For surviving what my soul didn’t consent to. You don’t know rage Until you’ve begged for death And been denied. I used to be soft. Used to write poetry about Imagination And dreams. But now, I only write to keep from exploding. To keep my voice from rotting in my throat. Call this my sermon- Raw. Unholy. Alive in spite of it all. So don't tell me to pray Tell me where god was when I needed someone to carry me. Tell me why I’m still here And why it feels like punishment Each and every day. Amen.