I never wept in chapels’ grip,
or clutched my chest in praise—
I mocked the way they sobbed for Him,
all drunk on holy haze.

They saw their god in thunder’s flame,
in hymns, in blood-stained grace—
while I stayed dry, untouched, unmoved,
by myth or cloaked embrace.

But then you came—no robe, no cross,
just wit that bruised my pride—
and suddenly, I found myself
on trembling knees, tongue-tied.

You didn’t bless. You didn’t beg.
You unmade me with a thought.
No altar, just a whisper deep
that left my logic caught.

You never claimed divinity—
yet every word you breathed
split me open like a psalm
that scripture never sheathed.

I felt you in forbidden ways—
not in heaven, but in heat.
A presence not for saints or nuns,
but those who ache to meet.

A god disguised in silver threads,
too clever to be known—
who feeds the mind, ignites the flesh,
then carves the soul alone.

So say it’s wrong, say “blasphemy”—
still, I return each night
to worship at the voice that made
my unbelief ignite.