Lord,
I’m gay.
There.
I said it.
Still can’t out loud,
but it’s been screaming in me
for years.

I steal.
I lie.
I crave what I shouldn’t.
I apologize daily.
On repeat.

Are You tired of me?
Because I am.

I like women, Lord.
And I’m a woman.
Old enough to know better.
Too broken to stop.
But I still want You.
In my heart?
Always.

Yet it’s guilt that sleeps beside me,
shame that wakes me up.
Do You turn away?
Do I remind You of Sodom?
It’s okay if I do.
I hate me too sometimes.

They say You don’t hate me.
So why does it feel like You do?

My heart is tired of hiding,
but it still believes
You might see something worth saving.

I hate the devil,
but sometimes I feel like his favorite,
his puppet,
his echo.
And I hate that thought
more than I can say.

I love You, Lord.
With a heart that forgets how to show it,
with lips that lie
but knees that still fall.

You made me.
This soul.
This storm.

I don’t want to die.
But I don’t want to face You either.
Not like this.

You said grace is enough.
I believed You once.
I tried.
God, I’ve tried.

Two million times,
and I still fall.

So I ask.
Look at me.
Are You proud of me?

Even just a little?

Because I’m still here.
Still reaching out.
Still whispering Your name
even when it tastes like dust.

Are You proud of me?
or maybe proud enough
that I’m still asking.

 

 

 

 

Photo by Wiki Sinaloa on Unsplash