IF GOD IS A FATHER

You made me lose my faith.
Not in you—
that was easy.
But in Him.
In the God they called Father,
because I watched you,
and if you were the blueprint,
then He is a monster.

They said He is always there.
You weren’t.
They said He is love.
You weren’t.
They said He forgives, protects, stays.
And you—
you vanished
when the storm came.
You watched it roll in,
felt the first drops fall,
and still
you did not stay.

You taught me that fathers
show up only when it suits them—
and only to inflict more damage.
You taught me that mercy
is just a mouthful of excuses,
and that pain is always
the daughter’s fault.

You made me abandon Christianity
like a burnt book—
because if God is a father,
then He is cruel.
He is fickle.
He is not forever.
He is only as faithful
as the men who invoke His name
while wiping blood
from their hands.

You showed me what it means
to worship at the altar
of your own anger,
to bow before the gods
that hurt your children
and call it righteousness.
You served your shame
like communion
and called me ungrateful
for spitting it out.

You let demons write my name
and then believed them.
You held up my life
to a funhouse mirror
and called the distortion truth.
You told the world I didn’t deserve
what I had bled for,
that I had stolen
the softness I found,
that I had tricked people
into loving me.

You used blood
to take me out at the knees—
because that’s what jealous gods do.
They cripple.
They crush.
They curse you
for surviving what they did to you.

If God is a father,
then He is unjust.
He is unfair.
He is a blade wrapped in scripture
and handed to daughters
with a smile.

You made me bend.
You made me stretch.
You made me shatter.
And when even my brokenness
wasn’t enough,
you reached for the rubble
and asked for more.

Pulverised,
is the way my father prefers me.
Not just broken—
but dust.
Erased.
Blown away
before I can speak of what happened.

If God is a father,
then I was never His child.
Just collateral.
Just silence.
Just one more girl
the story forgot to save.

So I turn away.
From the Father,
from the cross,
from the lies etched in gold.

If God is a father,
then I do not want Him.
I do not want this faith
built on the bones of girls like me.
I do not want hymns
that taste like vinegar,
or prayers that echo with silence.

I turn my back
on the God of fathers—
and I walk toward my own becoming.
Toward the godless love
that held me when you wouldn’t.
Toward the truth
that scorched my throat
but never lied.
Toward the life
you said I didn’t deserve—
and made my own anyway.

And still,
after all of this,
some part of me waits—
for a God who will not come.
For a father who will not change.
For a voice in the silence
saying,
I’m sorry. I should have loved you better.

But there is only quiet.
And I am the only one listening.

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