I knock again, God, and my knuckles are sore
From all the doors I’ve prayed against.
I brought You the same wishes in different words,
Folded them small, and set them down,
And waited for an answer that never came.
Are You busy?
Or tired of hearing me ask for the same rain
While my field stays dry?
Did my prayers get lost somewhere between my mouth
And the sky? Caught in the noise of bigger cries?
I’m not angry. Not really.
I’m just tired of carrying them alone.
The ones I whispered at 2am,
The ones I screamed with no sound,
The ones I said “Your will” to, even when my chest broke.
If You don’t take them, at least hold them for a minute.
See how heavy they’ve gotten.
See the fingerprints I left on them.
I’ll keep talking anyway.
Because not praying feels heavier
Than praying and hearing silence.
So here. Take this complaint too.
It’s the most honest prayer I have left.