I think God stutters

when He spells your name.

Each syllable trembles
like a prayer dropped
from unworthy lips.
Even angels hold their breath—
not in awe,
but in warning.
Your cruelty is my wound’s
favorite lullaby.
It hums under my skin,
rocking pain like a baby
wrapped in thorns.
I dare not hush it.
To silence it
would mean forgetting
how deeply I was once held
by your fire-warmed hands.
You came to me
with the mouth of a prophet
and the heart of a butcher.
You touched me
like a sermon—
beautiful, brutal,
and never for me.
Still, I built altars
out of your silence,
lit candles with my lungs,
offered my breath
in exchange for your shadow.
When God looks at me now,
He looks away.
Perhaps He’s ashamed
of the love
He placed in my bones—
the kind that survives
like the grief of a mother.
And I ask Him,
“Why did You allow this?”
Only for silence
to stare back at me—
its cat eyes,
neutral.
As if pain were a riddle
too old to answer.
As if  suffering
were just one raindrop
in His ancient storm.
I wait
I wait
And He replies
in the language of clocks—
ticking,
ticking,
never turning back.

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