Between the pages of my own two hands
are prayers that ache to the bone,
waiting to be answered.
I know I am not supposed to admit this
but my own voice whispers sour nothings
despite a hunger for fruition.
Tells me these prayers will go unanswered.
Tells me, I don’t deserve them.
That God doesn’t listen to girls like me,
sad girls, exhausted girls, girls who don’t fight
harder, girls who allow their limbs to dance
in puddles made of their own tears.
But I still hope. I still hold a mustard seed of faith
at the back of my throat. I may not have
the mental strength today to believe
with an iron fist but a featherweight of hope
has to mean something, has to be better than nothing.
This hope has to carry me somewhere,
has to find the ears of God and grant me a dream or two.
It has to.
