I talked to my mother and God, once.
They both held me by my face.
God tells me,
"Child, your grief is only yours to grieve. The quieter, the shorter."
My mother says,
"Grieve loudly. Then, it won't last forever."

Neither of them know
How this grief is not mine.
And how i pried it off your hands, when you left.

And how I would let it strangle me by the neck
If it felt the ways your hands did

And neither of them know
That I would never escape this grief.
How I'll cradle it forever
As the last thing I have, left of you.

To a god— what is the act of love, but the suppression of hate? Eyes closed shut, I hold back a curse. God, you 𝘢𝘣𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘶𝘵𝘦— God, why did you leave me like this? God?

Somehow the pain of suffering feels smaller in the face of being abandoned by someone promised to remain with you.

God, I keep kneeling towards you. Without compain. Endlessly. Will you listen, now? Have I appeased you enough? Why are there so many people in this world of yours when you cannot listen to even half of them? Nevermind.

God, my hands are still clasped. I do not know how to separate them, anymore. God, will I always have bruised knees? Will I always and forever be waiting for you?