Faith is A Bruise in My Lung
They speak like the sky owes them answers.
I sit quiet, a stone in their storm.
Their voices rise
Mine stays buried.
They say “He’s watching.”
I feel watched.
Not by God.
By them. Their eyes
Soft, but sharp.
Like feathers hiding knives.
I smile.
It hurts and I nod.
It burns.
They pray.
I pretend. Because I love them.
Because I need them.
Because I don’t want to be the ghost at the table.
Their faith is loud.
As mine is a bruise.
Not purple and not visible.
But tender every time they say “saved.”
I want to scream
As much as I want to run and
I want to be held without being fixed.
I want to belong without being erased.
And I want to stay.
Because leaving feels like dying.
And I want to leave
But staying feels like disappearing.
But I don’t know which ache is worse.
~~~
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