Numb

There is a kind of grief

that doesn’t scream.

It doesn’t shatter mirrors

or leave bruises anyone can see.

It simply steals

one feeling at a time,

until your heart becomes

a museum of things

you used to be.

Joy hangs from broken nails.

Peace is buried beneath ash.

Hope is another room

I’ve stopped walking into.

I am small now.

Not childlike.

Just… diminished.

The prayers still leave my lips,

but they fall only a few inches

before collapsing beside me.

I’ve stopped wrestling.

I’ve stopped asking why.

I’ve simply laid my weapons down

and waited

for the God I love

to find me where I’ve fallen.

Sometimes I wonder

if He’s already here..

if His hands have been wrapped around me

this whole time..

and I’m simply too numb

to feel His touch.

People ask if I’m okay.

They ask if I’m still writing.

Still listening.

Yes.

The pages still fill.

The songs still play.

My lips still know the melodies,

even when my soul has forgotten

how they feel.

I can stand in a room

with tears running down my face,

singing that oceans are only water

beneath the feet of a faithful God…

and for one beautiful moment,

I remember what whole feels like.

Then the music fades.

And the battlefield returns.

I can see Him.

I know exactly where He is.

He’s standing on the other side

of a city that no longer exists.

Every bridge between us

has been swallowed by fire.

Every step I take

awakens another explosion.

The buildings I once called

peace…

purpose…

rest…

have become skeletons

reaching into an empty sky.

So I wave

a white flag

that no one comes to collect.

I kneel.

Then fall.

Face pressed into the dirt,

covered in blood.

I’ve stopped trying to decide

whether it’s mine…

or His.

Because somehow

they’ve become impossible

to tell apart.

And if this is what faith looks like

breathing

without feeling alive…

then perhaps

the greatest miracle

is that somewhere beneath the rubble,

my heart

is still whispering His name.