Write Stuff

“Are You There, God?”
by AW

I speak to You tonight without folded hands,
without the right words,
without strength.
Only questions sit beside me,
heavy as the days I keep surviving.

Did I walk the wrong paths, God?
Did I miss a lesson You were trying to teach?
I tried to be kind.
I tried to do right.
I tried to carry my share without complaint.
So tell me—was it not enough?

Why do the burdens keep arriving
before I have set the last one down?
Why does sorrow seem to know my name
so well, so personally?
Each time I rise, another weight waits,
as if my shoulders were chosen on purpose.

I look back at my life like a ledger,
searching for the sin that earned this pain.
If this is punishment, tell me for what.
If this is a test, tell me how long.
If this is faith, why does it feel
so much like being abandoned?

I am tired, God.
Not the kind of tired sleep can fix—
the kind that seeps into the bones,
that makes hope feel expensive
and breathing feel like work.

Everyone says You are near,
but the silence is loud.
I speak, and the echo returns my voice
instead of Yours.
Are You listening,
or am I praying into emptiness?

Tonight the load is too heavy.
My knees are bending.
My heart is bruised.
And I am scared of how alone I feel
even while saying Your name.

If You are there, God,
I don’t need answers yet.
I don’t need miracles or explanations.
I just need a sign—
a whisper, a pause in the pain,
a reminder that I am seen.

Because I can carry many things,
but I cannot carry the thought
that I am carrying them alone.

So I ask You plainly, without pride:
Are You there, God?
And if You are…
please don’t be silent tonight.

Still Standing
by Anusha Wicks

My body wakes before my strength does,
bones heavy with yesterday’s worry,
heart already tired before the day begins.
Sleep no longer rests me—
it only pauses the fear.

Hospital walls live inside my mind now,
machines breathing where you should be,
your silence louder than any sound.
I talk to you anyway,
because loving you doesn’t know how to stop.

Bills stack like unanswered prayers,
numbers blur, deadlines press their fingers into my chest.
I calculate futures that refuse to settle,
wondering how long hope can stretch
before it starts to ache.

I am mother, provider, fixer, shield—
roles I never rehearsed for,
carried by arms that shake but do not drop.
There is no one to lean into at night,
only the quiet weight of responsibility beside me.

Some days my tears don’t fall anymore.
They sit behind my eyes, exhausted,
like even grief has run out of energy.
I move through hours on instinct,
doing what must be done because it must be done.

And still—
I show up.
With a tired body and a bruised heart,
I show up.

Because love doesn’t disappear in comas.
Because strength sometimes looks like trembling hands
that keep going anyway.
Because even when the future is a locked door,
I stand in front of it, breathing, waiting, enduring.

I am drained.
I am afraid.
I am alone.

And somehow,
I am still here.