The God Who Looked Away

I begged for it to end.
For mercy, for stillness,
for the sound of his rage to break
into silence.

I prayed for death,
for peace,
for anything but this.
I whispered to a god who didn’t care,
who never came,
who let the walls shake
and my heart split open.

I confessed my sins
to men in robes,
thinking maybe heaven would listen
if I spoke through them.
But they smiled with his lie
and turned their faces away.
My bruises were invisible
to the ones who claimed to see the soul.

I learned that faith is just another room
you can scream inside
and still be alone.

So I stopped praying.
Stopped hoping.
Stopped believing anyone
would come.

Now, when the memory comes back,
I still fold my hands out of habit—
but there’s no prayer left,
just trembling,
and the echo of a god
who never answered.