I grew up in wooden pews where the air smelled like dust
and perfume and guilt, kneecaps bruised from kneeling on cheap red cushions
while the choir tried to drown out what we really felt with all that polished noise
and practiced smiles,
Watched the pastor grip the pulpit with righteous hands,
voice shotgunning verses about mercy and love while his eyes skimmed the crowd
like searchlights hunting for someone weak enough to blame for the week’s bad news,
brick by brick building a tower out of fear and denial,
I memorized prayers like passwords, whispered names of saints into my pillow at night
like they were security codes that might unlock a softer morning,
believed every whispered warning that doubt was a disease
and questions were knives turned inward,
But when your cousin confessed what they did to her behind the church kitchen door
and they told her to forgive, to stay quiet,
to protect the “family of faith,” something fractured inside my chest so clean I could hear the split
like rotten wood finally giving way under a weight it never should have carried,
From then on every stained glass window looked less like holy light and more
like colored lies soldered together with the same dirty hands that signed letters on church letterhead saying nothing happened,
nothing was wrong, the only sin was talking too loud about the wrong kind of pain.
I’m losing faith in something they called sacred, watching halos slide off hooks
and land in the mud with a dull, honest sound that feels more real than any hymn ever did,
If the altar was built on bodies and silence, then smashing it isn’t blasphemy,
it’s just refusing to kneel where my own blood and hers already hid,
You can keep your spotless script
and your polished cross hanging like a trophy above the door,
I’ll take the raw truth that everything holy I was handed came cracked
and corrupt and not worth bleeding for anymore.
They told us every scar could be turned into a sermon illustration,
every breakdown a testimony if we smiled wide enough onstage
and talked about “overcoming” while our hands still shook, as if survival was a brand deal
and trauma just promo material for a god who needed better optics,
I watched guys in suits lay hands on crying strangers, shaking and moaning,
while pretending not to see the kids in the back row cutting patterns into their arms during worship because the music promised freedom
but the doors all locked from the inside, only swinging open
when the plate was full enough, never when someone needed out quick,
It’s hard to swallow communion when you know who bought the wine with hush money,
when you know the bread was baked in a kitchen
where someone’s story was scrubbed off the walls with bleach and prayer,
when you know that behind every “blessed” there’s a ledger counting who’s useful
and who’s disposable,
I tried to stay, tried to make it better from within, told myself no structure is perfect,
told myself maybe I could shine some light into the corners,
but the light kept hitting things they refused to name,
kept bouncing off plaques with donors’ names instead of any hint of accountability,
and that’s when I knew I had to choose between their god and my own fucking conscience,
Walking away felt like ripping a hooked barbed wire crown off my scalp,
blood everywhere, dizzy and shaking,
but at least my head was mine again, at least I could look in a mirror without feeling
like an accomplice every time I didn’t speak up.
Don’t you dare tell me I just met the wrong kind of shepherds,
that somewhere there’s a pure version of this machine humming along without grinding anyone under its wheels,
I’ve seen too many copies stamped from the same cheap mold,
Different logos, different chants, same hunger for control dressed up as concern,
same demand that we trade in our questions for certainty,
our rage for compliance,
our pain for a spot on their mailing list in exchange for a story they can spin
and sell as proof their product works on broken souls,
If there’s anything sacred left for me, it’s the look in her eyes
when she finally said, “No, I’m not forgiving him,” and didn’t get struck by lightning,
didn’t get swallowed by the floor, just sat there breathing
like a person whose worth wasn’t measured in how fast she could sanctify someone else’s harm,
If there’s any prayer left in my mouth, it’s just a muttered “never again”