You said it with the certainty of scripture,
as though the breath of God Himself
had passed through your lips
to declare me unworthy.
Not stranger. Not enemy.
But one of your own.
Your dismissal cut cleaner than doctrine—
not a theological quibble,
but a blade slipped between ribs,
twisting where love once lived.
The same mouth that once whispered care
now spits me out of the Body,
as if Christ’s blood dried up
before it reached my veins.
I want to ask you—
what kind of gospel is this,
that builds its kingdom on exclusions,
that cannot bear the weight
of a queer child of God?
You wield your verses like shackles
and call it reverence.
But I feel the bruise of them still.
And yet, even as I bleed,
I carry the ache of family—
how I once prayed you would see me,
not as argument,
but as kin,
as flesh and spirit bound together
in the same baptismal waters.
If you ever look again into my eyes,
you will find not an exile,
but one still beloved.
Not by you, perhaps—
but by the One you claim to follow,
whose table was long enough
for fishermen, tax collectors, zealots—
and yes, for me too.
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