My Own Hands

I thought God
would answer
with thunder.

Instead

God left me
with my own hands.

How cruel.

How holy.

To be placed
inside a life
that keeps breaking

and still feel
something in me

rise.

Not clean.

Not saved.

Not even brave.

Just this blue ache
dragging itself
out of the dark

one trembling line
at a time.

I have begged
without calling it begging.

I have reached
for things
that could not stay.

For people.
For mercy.
For proof
that I was not alone
inside my own body.

And still—

my hand rises.

As if some part of me
knows something
I keep forgetting.

As if love
left a signal
under my skin.

As if God
did not come down
because God
was already here

moving through
the ruin

teaching my own hands

how to reach me.