When did I stop being a Christian?
Was it recent, a slow unraveling thread,
Or years ago, when innocence first bled,
Or was it when I was just a child—
A child who learned to hide,
To lock the questions deep inside?
I wonder now, in the stillness of night,
If I ever truly wore that name,
A child of God, with hands to pray—
Or if it was all just a game,
A story told to make me whole,
While I searched for pieces to fill my soul.
I preferred the cold whispers in the dark,
The voices of ghosts, who never turned away,
Their secrets wrapped in shadows,
A quiet comfort in their disarray.
They never judged, never shamed,
They simply listened as I called their name.
The demons, too, had something real,
A certain power, a certain fire,
That spoke to something raw inside,
A hunger that matched my desire.
They didn't try to fix my wounds,
But held them gently, like forgotten tunes.
And in the light, I found no grace,
Only empty words, a hollow space.
Pastors spoke of love and light,
But I couldn't find it in their eyes—
Only promises that never met the sky,
Only answers I knew were lies.
When did I stop believing, I ask—
Was it when I first saw the cracks?
Or was it always there, a flicker, a breath,
That pushed me toward the edge of death?
I no longer know what it means to pray,
Or if I ever truly did, anyway.
I am the child who wandered away,
Chasing things that didn't stay,
Now left with echoes, silent and cold,
Wondering where I lost my hold.
The ghosts and demons are still my friends,
But do they heal? Or just pretend?
So here I stand, with hands unmet,
A soul that’s tired, but can't forget—
The longing for something pure,
The search for something to endure.
Maybe I stopped being a Christian long ago,
But the question still haunts me—*does anyone know?