Holding On by a Thread of Faith
There’s a strange kind of peace in the moments before I go quiet again.
Before the storm beneath my skin starts to rise, before the lies slip from my mouth, before I start hurting people who never deserved to be caught in my pain.
It’s almost perfect , that stillness. That illusion that maybe this time will be different. That maybe I’ve finally found my footing again. But deep down, I can already feel the cracks forming. The familiar ache. The slow unraveling.
And I pray to God I’ve always believed in, the one who’s carried me through every fall, every relapse, every tear-soaked night. But lately, I’m struggling to feel Him. My faith that once grounded me now trembles beneath the weight of my own guilt.
I don’t hate God.
I hate that I keep walking away from Him.
I hate that I keep breaking promises I swore I’d keep.
I hate that even in my belief, I doubt.
So here I am again standing at the edge of silence,
heart heavy, hands shaking,
whispering a prayer I’m not even sure will reach Him…
but praying anyway.
Before the storm beneath my skin starts to rise, before the lies slip from my mouth, before I start hurting people who never deserved to be caught in my pain.
It’s almost perfect , that stillness. That illusion that maybe this time will be different. That maybe I’ve finally found my footing again. But deep down, I can already feel the cracks forming. The familiar ache. The slow unraveling.
And I pray to God I’ve always believed in, the one who’s carried me through every fall, every relapse, every tear-soaked night. But lately, I’m struggling to feel Him. My faith that once grounded me now trembles beneath the weight of my own guilt.
I don’t hate God.
I hate that I keep walking away from Him.
I hate that I keep breaking promises I swore I’d keep.
I hate that even in my belief, I doubt.
So here I am again standing at the edge of silence,
heart heavy, hands shaking,
whispering a prayer I’m not even sure will reach Him…
but praying anyway.
“We must accept the fact that some days we are the mess, and still, God calls us beloved.”
22-25, F
