Are you?
I’m not here to quote scripture.
I’m not kneeling.
I’m not lighting candles in hopes of being cleansed.
I just want to know if you ever saw me.
In the cupboard.
On the floor.
In the courtroom.
On the front page.
Did you look away when it got uncomfortable?
Or were you just silent like everyone else?
Because I begged.
I whispered your name until it lost meaning.
I sang songs that weren’t prayers, but sounded like them.
And still—
the burn happened.
the lock clicked.
the judge spoke.
the crowds laughed.
I’m not saying you owe me anything.
I’m just saying…
If you were there—
what were you waiting for?
A sign?
A song?
A reason to intervene?
Because I’ve met devils in family photos.
I’ve heard angels in addicts.
And I’ve found more divinity in strangers who gave me a cigarette than in any church pew I’ve ever sat in.
Maybe that’s the point.
Maybe you don’t live in churches.
Maybe you live in cracked mirrors, stolen notebooks, and the moments when I almost gave up but didn’t.
If that’s true—
then thank you.
And fuck you.
Both.
Because belief is a burden, and hope is a hell of a drug.
But still, I wake up.
Still, I write.
Still, I sing.
So if you’re still listening—
I hope my voice is loud enough now.
I hope you hear me.
And I hope…
you finally answer back.