There exists a god
It doesn’t hear Black prayers.
It locks heaven when darkness draws near
And misses the wails
–hundreds of years worth–
For something different.
“If you cannot make this better
Make me different,”
Or so goes one prayer.
It does not respond.
Instead It turns away
And does not see the shape
A bloated broken black body makes
Rotting in the sun.
It misses the scent of hopelessness
And despair turned in upon itself.
It cannot feel the fingers pulling
Sunday after Sunday
–Dressed in what could be afforded–
Plucking pieces of It from dirt
Holding the remnants to the light.
Like the parents–absent and present–
Who stand as equals accused
It is gone from us.
It denies us and has learned not to flinch
When we cry for It
Babes who have only ever known the
Who will only ever feel The Void
I would tell Him
I hate him
For making me this way
For the skin that had to grow
The back that replaced bone
The face that had to find beauty
And for never once
Opening the windows
To let a prayer in.