April 2020

You said we were chosen.

That God knit us together.

But if He did,

why did I feel like I was choking on the thread?

You quoted scripture like a contract.

Said the storms were tests,

that real men don’t leave mid-trial.

You called it warfare.

I called it walking on eggshells.

Every argument became a sermon.

Every plea for peace, a lack of faith.

You said “a cord of three strands is not easily broken.”

But one of those strands

was wrapped around my neck.

You prayed over me after screaming.

Laid hands like I was a demon

you were trying to cast out.

You called your control submission.

My hesitation—rebellion.

I stayed

because I thought leaving

meant failing God.

But I was never equally yoked.

I was bound.

Bound by guilt.

By fear.

By the belief

that maybe this was what God meant by sacrifice.

It took years to unlearn

that God isn’t in the mouth

of the one who bruises you

and then bows their head.

Read the Next Poem

Becoming a Father