Your Holy Ghost

I've loved you at arms length since I was eleven, but that’s never mattered because I'm not going to heaven. It breaks your heart. That fact that so many people like me have this affinity for suffering in some promised eternity. Heard of, but never known. I'm sorry I need to touch the love that I’ll call home. I'm sorry I'm frightened and need security, or at least the knowledge that if I fall, someone will catch me, and not call me out for every time I didn't believe it. I won't call what happens after death take it or leave it. I know you want to see the world as rippled by God's hands, or as a series of messages that we can't understand, but while all you see is Him, His Glory, and His Eminence, the dirt and sand between my palms speaks only of his absence. And that's the saddest part, we see the same picture, though mine’s run by making sense, and not run by scripture. Because the only rules more solid than the ones written on stone, brought down from the highest mountains are the ones we call our own. But your rules are different, and sadly make you choose between who will be there until you die, and who is coming with you. Don’t make me sit beside you with sweaty palms to tell that no matter what you or I feel, my doubt is dragging me to Hell. No Holy Ghost scratching behind the walls, listening and marking every time we chose in our own ways to do the right or wrong thing. You're living and hurt because in some way, you love everyone you’ve ever met. We could have it all together, but we all haven't found that kind of confidence yet