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I have killed in His name,

cut down men with shaking hands

and steady aim,

watched their blood stain the dirt

and called it righteous.

I have whispered prayers through cracked lips,

begged for mercy in the same breath

I used to curse my enemy,

wiped my blade clean

and asked Him to forgive me.

Does He?

Does He look down at me,

this ragged thing, this dog of war,

and still call me His?

Or does He turn His face away,

ashamed of the man I have become,

of the things I have done

while swearing I was good?

I wonder if He flinches

when I kneel to pray,

if my voice sounds like an insult,

like something broken,

something rusted through with rot.

I wonder if He listens at all.

Because when I close my eyes,

when I bow my head,

when I beg Him for peace,

all I hear is silence.

Or maybe—

Maybe it's not silence.

Maybe it’s His answer.

Maybe it’s Him telling me

that I was never meant to come home.