U.S. Illness

God,

It doesn’t really matter what I write here
Because no one reads me.
It doesn’t matter what I say
When no one is listening.
Can it matter what I do
When no one sees?
Or who I am
When no one loves me?

I love cold souls, don’t I?
People who refuse
To put their house in order
Regardless of who they abuse.
They did such damage to my soul,
To my choices,
And they still grow and flourish.
People hear their voices
Even when they slandered me.
No one defended.
How can I assume there is value in me
If no one has ever contended
For my good.

I want to pray imprecations
With closed fists;
I have endeavored to live open-handed,
But their toxicity has twisted me
And I want to wish they would reap what they sow,
But I know Your ways are higher.

By my calculations, this can’t be put right.

I had one chance
To still get to be me,
And they burned it to the ground,
Without tenderness or regret.

May Your math be higher than mine,
God of all heaven and earth.