A Prayer for the Hell I Know

 


Lord

I miss home.

Not because it was gentle

not because it was kind

but because it was familiar.

I hated it there.

I hated the walls

the voices

the way pain learned my name.

And yet compared to where I stand now

it feels like shelter.

I thought this place would save me.

I thought safety lived here

that peace wore this address.

But saints can be cruel Lord

crueler than demons who admit what they are.

They smile with Scripture on their lips

hands lifted in worship

eyes closed to the wreckage they cause.

They never look in the mirror.

They hide behind the Bible

behind church doors

behind the illusion of holiness.

So here I am praying words

I never thought I would dare to say.

Send me back.

Back to the hell I know.

Back to the demons whose faces I recognize.

I would rather bleed where I understand the wounds

than suffocate among those

who call themselves pure

while sharpening their knives in secret.

I hate that I want this.

I hate that I have no choice.

I hate that endurance has become my only skill.

Because the truth Lord

is that I have nowhere else to go.

The more I sit with it

the louder the silence becomes.

The more I realize

this loneliness is its own kind of exile.

Maybe You want me to run with wolves

to swim with sharks

to learn survival where love is scarce.

But my heart is tired Lord.

My soul is bruised.

Life feels unbearable tonight.

Heavy.

Unfair.

Sharp at the edges.

If there is a door You are preparing

please

let it open.

Even a crack.

Even a sign.

Because I do not know

how much longer

I can carry this

and still call it faith.

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