I pray in whispers
not because I’m shy,
but because silence
seems to listen better than people.

Sometimes,
I think God forgets
which room I’m in.
Or maybe He knocked
when I wasn’t brave enough
to answer.

The holy books say
He’s everywhere,
but some days,
I only find Him
in the ache behind my ribs.

I light candles
for things I’ve stopped asking for.
Hope burns slower
when it’s quiet.

I’ve fasted,
knelt,
cried into pillowcases
instead of altars—
but maybe they’re the same thing.

Faith, to me,
isn't certainty.
It's choosing to believe
while still bleeding doubt.