Too Human

He says he went there once,
said so at his parole hearing.
Hands folded, face downcast,
whispering his sins into the dark lattice.
The priest's calm and holy voice
spoke of absolution,
mercy endless as the skies.
God forgives you, my son. Go in peace.

I wonder if God heard me crying that night,
if He saw my hands trembling,
a child's voice lost under his weight.
Did He hear my whispered prayers
for it to stop? For it to end?
Or was His ear tuned only to the sinner's regret?

They say forgiveness is divine,
but I am flesh and bone,
blood that stains and scars that still scream.
My heart beats with fury, not grace,
my soul twists in the fire of memory,
too human to absolve, too fragile to forget.

He walked out lighter,
his sins left behind on a wooden bench,
while I carry his darkness
like a stone in my chest,
sharp, unyielding,
a weight only I can feel.

Let God forgive him.
Let the heavens open for his soul.
But I am no God.
I'm just a girl who can't forget,
and can't set him free.