The Gospel According to My Scars

They said—preach the gospel,

but what gospel bleeds and begs

you to fear before you love?

The only gospel I know

sheds blood, then files a report with God

like a broken game of telephone.

My soul could’ve stayed whole

but the body can’t teleport,

and the eyes—

they’ve seen too much to lie.

"Nothing is as it seems,"

but if truth is bought,

what does that make me—

faithless or just broke?

They say, as above, so below,

but if heaven is the mind,

and mine is chaos—

then what hope does the body hold?

They paint perfection

on a God who floods earth with plague,

but tell me it’s love?

No wonder fear speaks first.

Love was always a whisper

beneath a shouting sky.

So what gospel shall I carry?

The one that crucified my questions,

or the one that called my doubt holy?