She talks to God through men who take her prayers and toss them from hand to hand examining them for tones and octaves of dissent. She knows this, and perfectly picks her words to prove her loyalty; to prove her submission. She believes that this is how God listens.
We hear the voice of denial. A woman who hides herself from them and God in hopes that she can convince herself that what she claims to believe is what she believes.
Her heart is a badly scarred battleground engulfed in flames. The fire fueled by uncertainty, doubt, and desires pushed down and suppressed like the type of gunfire standards fired all around her. White washed bullets the color of young caskets.
Truth is a searing arrow perceived as hateful and divisive. It disrupts dishonest peace, so she shields herself. Those who know her ache over the warpaint smile she hides behind.
Fucking isn’t love; isn’t binding, but she doesn’t know that. Won’t accept that. She’ll drown in flames before she tears down the veil raised to keep herself fooled.
We wish she’d stir from the dream; awake to reality.
We know we’re losing her.
If the her we once knew has already succumbed to the fire.