God Owes Me Answers
I was told He listens.
That every tear I fed the floor
was collected by holy hands,
that pain served a purpose
even when it split me open like lightning.
But I’ve bled into prayers
that went nowhere.
Screamed into ceilings
that stayed still.
And if there’s a plan,
why does it feel like punishment
just to keep breathing?
God owes me answers.
Not riddles in scripture
or well-meaning verses
read by people who never heard
a mother’s sob crawl out of her bones.
Not silence.
Not sermons.
Not “trust in His timing”
when time has only ever taken.
What do I do with this faith
when it feels like a bruise?
What do I do with this silence
that echoes louder than comfort?
I was taught to fold my hands
like that would keep me safe.
But my hands were shaking
when I needed Him most.
And no one came.
So I stopped asking for peace.
Started demanding it.
Stopped whispering prayers
and started shouting truths:
You weren’t there.
And I’m still here.
Is that the miracle?
Is that the test?
Or just the cruelty of believing
in a presence that never showed?
Still,
some part of me
wants to believe
there’s something holy
about my survival,
even if God never said a word.
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