The Gospel According to My Scars
They told me to preach the gospel—
but which one?
The one soaked in blood,
then sent to God like a confession
in a game no one wins?
My soul? Could’ve been clean.
But this body—
it couldn’t teleport.
These eyes?
They couldn’t unsee
what He let happen.
And still they say—
“Nothing is as it seems.”
So who’s lying?
Me? Or the illusion?
If heaven is the mind,
then mine is burning—
and maybe that’s why hell feels familiar.
If the plagues came from love,
then keep it.
Don’t hand me that
“He works in mysterious ways”
like it’s comfort.
Fear Him before you love Him?
Now that part makes sense.
'Cause love don’t flood cities
or silence mothers.
Love don’t strike first
and call it divine.
So what gospel do I preach?
The one they packaged in fear?
Or the one I clawed from silence—
scarred, doubting,
but still mine?
A. Zoya