II. Moths in the Sanctuary

It started as

a tremor—

a thought

I shouldn’t have touched.

The questions crept in

like moths drawn

to sanctuary candles,

dust-winged

hungry

whispering:

But what if?

Why that?

How do you know?

My chest tightened,

guilt pooling heavy—

like sin had a pulse

and it beat

inside me.

I feared doubt

as if it were a demon

I accidentally fed,

as if curiosity

were a crack in my armor

and God would see

straight through it

to my trembling.

Everyone else was certain.

Hands raised high,

voices sure,

eyes blazing

with confidence I tried

to manufacture

like breath on cold glass.

But late at night

I lay awake

monitoring every thought

for heresy,

repenting for

unasked questions,

kneeling to silence

my own mind

before it wandered

too far

from safety.

I thought holiness

was staying small

inside certainty’s cage.

I didn’t know yet

that the door

was unlocked.