Sometimes I revisit my own memories,
my own understanding of who I am,
or maybe who I’m supposed to be.
I hide my questions in my chest
and in the back of my throat,
and they almost taste like guilt.
Why do we name everything
when we’re all the same?
Why do we cage love,
and who is to blame?
Is it the God
who made these restraints?
Or is it the one
who created God
and burned her up in flames?
Maybe they burned her up
because she fell in love too.
She fell from the pedestal
when a woman became her muse.
She said,
To love is to pray,
and to pray is to call out her name.
To pray is to call her mind.
To pray is to question the divine.
So I pray
in a cathedral built of doubts.
I pray to a God who does not listen,
a God who does not love me back,
a prayer that sounds almost like a question,
a question that I’m afraid to ask.
And maybe this time
my prayers will not fall into the void,
but they will be answered
by a God
who does not love me back.