A whining whisper would always come out of my mouth
Whether it's in the quiet nights—kneeling before my altar,
or the nights where I kneel before you telling me to be quiet.
You do give me the familiarity of kneeling before God,
The warmth on my skin igniting my cold blood,
The quiet begging that just won't be heard,
The bruises carving faith onto my knees.
I believe that God has finally seen me
The way that the bruises started crawling up into my thighs, carving what seems to be long paths of a complex color of red.
Is it weird that the bruises seems to burn more than they ache?
I should believe it that you're a mortal bearing what's holy, sending His message through your hands.
Nov 14, 2025
Nov 14, 2025 at 4:46 AM UTC