Skeptical

Back row cynic in a crisp white shirt Crucifix chalked on a blackboard curse Father O’Malley preaches saints and serpents While I pencil holes in the gospel's surface "Elisha, hero? Bears for a prank? Two kids mocked him — they got torn, thanks" I raise my hand, they dodge the glance Is wrath still holy if it wears priest pants? I wasn't angry, I was trained to ask Why the devil's temptations felt more like tasks Bread for the starving, power for peace Is that sin... or misplaced belief? I dug too deep in the margins Found stones where they promised stars Every lesson built on silence Shattered when I pressed too hard I wasn't looking to burn the altar But I saw through the smoke and scar Now the God clause reads like fiction When the questions leave the mark Simon, the rock… but what if the serpent’s tongue Was speaking through the one He’d lean upon? Judas kissed the cheek — they paint him red But Peter’s denial spoke louder instead They said, “Hosea’s words are metaphor, kid,” But I heard God's rage on a woman’s skin "Strip her bare… no mercy for her seed" You call it sacred, I call it obscene I dug too deep in the margins Found cracks in the sainted lore Each commandment contradicted By the blood spilled just before I wasn't raised for rebellion I was taught to reason more And every creed that feared my questions Wasn’t faith — it was a war I dug too deep in the margins Now I write in empty pews The faith they framed in silence Couldn’t survive the proof I never aimed to kill belief But the truth pulled out its roots So I buried God in reason And found myself the proof