A worshipped Myth

What does humanity feel for a creature cursed never to experience compassion? To feel anything deranges your existence. To be witnessed feeling anything strips you of your defense. This vessel, this compass of religion, is a lie, a shapeshifting, altering doctrine, a lesson that one cannot fully fathom without being prosecuted for believing in anything other than divinity. I beg at the foot of god’s statue, and I am appointed with silence.

Repent. Repent. Repent.

Individuals and mortal beings will never be clean from sin. Defiance will be answered with battering. It is known. That’s what they claim is true. That is their way. But I am still flawed and unsettling, and to them, he is god. The corruption begins with the mouth, the tongue—the whispers of blasphemous prayers. To be made of flesh was degradation. To be deprived of your protection increases vulnerability. It leaves you with nothing.

As I release years of concealed torment, with bruised knees and cramped up hands—I lay myself bare, this one opportunity I consider myself generous to give. Will you disappoint me? Will you receive my complaints with a gesture of compassion? My fingers curled tightly around the hem of my collar, as if even in sleep I struggle to make sure any of this is real. Like I’m not a made-up reverie forced to follow tradition.

You respond with mockery like rolling thunder, “but this is how it is.”

Bow your head to the house of god little girl. Who do you think you are? You have no authority in a place of worship. No questions will be entertained for you are meant to be silenced. If you ever find yourself succeeding in speaking blatant truths, you will be stripped of your purity.

I sense the ache of searching for someone who only knows how to remain stagnant and out of reach. I wonder how a redeemer such as your omnipotent god can live in such tranquil slumber whilst I claw for any ounce of stability.

I don’t believe in god