The Apostasy of Daughters

I once kneeled to pray
in the cathedral of childhood,
my palms pressed together
like brittle scripture—
naïve, unmarked by doubt,
believing in the benevolence
of the Father.

They said God is love,
that He moves in mysterious ways,
but there is nothing cryptic
about a slammed door
or a silence that calcifies.
There is no divine paradox
in a father who leaves,
then returns only to raze
what small sanctuaries
you’ve built from his ashes.

If God is a father,
then He too must be
a vanishing point—
not Alpha nor Omega,
but the ellipsis
in every unanswered question.

I called you Abba once,
before I learned the sacred tongue
was barbed in your mouth.
Your “I love you”s
were commandments
etched in disappearing ink,
your affection a burning bush
that never stayed lit long enough
to warm me.

I wore your approval
like a relic around my neck,
until it choked me—
heavy, hollow,
swinging pendulum of promise
and punishment.
I mistook your tempest
for omnipotence,
your absence for atonement,
your rage for revelation.

And still, I whispered psalms
into the wind,
hoping you would return
like a prodigal god—
older, wiser, gentler.

You did not.

You tore the veil from the temple
and called it mercy.
You flooded the altar
and blamed the storm.
You shattered the stained glass
with your name still on my lips,
each shard a testament
to faith misplaced.

So now I wear unbelief
like a baptism—
full-immersion,
lungs filled with the knowing
that the Father
was never for me.

And if He was,
then He is cruel.

He is the rib pulled
not for creation,
but for breaking.
He is the crucifix
nailed to a lie.
He is the wine
turned to vinegar
on every tongue that dared
to speak of love.