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?