An Invitation to the Absent God

In the wet black seam between forgiveness and damnation,

I crack my legs open like a blasphemy.

I do not tremble.

I do not plead.

.

I make a mouth of myself,

and let the rot crawl in.

Not by accident—

but by design.

.

I am bait.

I am bait.

I am bait.

.

Let the darkness root in me,

suckle me, crown me queen of its silence.

Let me be profaned so utterly

that the stars turn away in shame.

.

And if you are watching—

from whatever celestial oubliette

you banished yourself to—

.

then this is your cue.

Come damn me.

If you’re real, come claim your broken thing.

Your screaming, defiant daughter.

Your ash-bellied sacrament.

.

But know this:

if you descend,

if you dare show up now,

you must answer for your silence.

You must know this isn’t a betrayal.

.

It’s a summons.

.

Because I am letting hell into my womb,

not to become it—

but to see if you still exist.

.

And if you do,

then you must be capable of forgiving

even this.

.

So don’t stay hidden.

Don’t stay holy.

Don’t stay safe.

.

Come find me

in the filth that waits

just past faith.