Scripture For The Damned

I decoded theology.

God is fiction.

Religion is fan fiction —

written in fear,

edited in conquest,

proofread by men who mistook power for purpose.

I asked too many questions in temples,

so they rewrote the scriptures

with disclaimers in red.

They said faith moves mountains.

So they built shrines on landslides

and called it destiny.

They wore suffering like school uniforms —

stitched with silence,

badge of blind obedience.

They called their deaths sacrifices.

But sacrifice needs consent.

Most of them were just collateral.

I watched a prophet burn his doubts

to warm the same crowd

that lit the pyre.

Martyrs are never volunteers.

Just tired people

who stopped running.

I prayed once —

not out of faith,

but fatigue.

Sometimes, hope is just a prettier suicide note.

They told me to surrender.

I asked, “To whom?”

They handed me mirrors

and called it god.

Turns out, their deities

looked just like them —

angry, entitled,

and allergic to dissent.

Their scriptures promised fire.

Their priests sent invoices.

Sin became a one-way toll road

with traffic in both directions.

They said: love thy neighbour —

unless he eats the wrong meat,

loves the wrong gender,

or spells god with a lowercase g.

They said salvation.

I said: I’d rather rot with questions

than rise with answers

written by tyrants.

They asked me to repent.

I asked them to read.

I don’t kneel anymore.

I don’t fold hands —

except when I clap back.

I don’t chant.

I howl.

Let me burn like scripture —

banned,

blasphemous,

quoted in whispers.

You don’t become a wildfire.

You spark.

And the gods choke on smoke.