You wear gold crosses like shields,
polished and empty—
meaning long since abandoned.
Mouth full of scripture,
hands full of stones.
You bless the lash,
then write my name on the whip.
You call it love.

You bless your hate
with bold tongues in stained-glass chambers,
then spit it like venom
on the tired backs of the ones
you refuse to call human.

You chant about grace
while locking cages.
Preach of mercy
while sharpening laws
like knives.

And I—
I see the marketplace you built
in the house meant for healing.
I see you counting coins
with blood still on your hands,
justifying every drop
in the name of a kingdom
you never belonged to.

If I could,
I’d flip your tables.
One by one.
Scattering your silver
like shame across the floor,
until the only thing left standing
is the sound of your silence,
faced with a truth
you can’t twist.

Your faith is a costume.
Your gospel, a weapon.
Your god—
no god I know.