God wants something from me.
I don’t know what.
But it isn’t this.
It isn’t peace.
It isn’t sleep.

He calls it a purpose
I call it a sentence.
And maybe that's blasphemy.
But I’m too tired to care about heaven.

Every day, I wake up
inside a body that never asked to exist.
And I carry a name
that feels like someone else’s mistake.

The world keeps turning,
not out of beauty,
but because no one knows how to stop it.
It wants me to smile,
to adapt,
to bow.
I won’t.

Not out of courage
but because I no longer know how to pretend.

If I had the pen,
God would be a child,
crying in the dark,
begging someone to answer.

And no one would come.