Never Yours

Six minutes before the alarm,

I’m already dreading the list—

things I should’ve done last week

pressing in on today.

So I pray to my God for help.

But my God is ruthlessly practical.

My God reminds me cat patterns mirror the womb’s design—

symmetry born in silent cells dividing.

My God tells me to stay off the internet.

Says most of my problems are my own design.

My God says things like:

"Remember when you believed

in doing something today

to make tomorrow better?

Now you live in sandcastle dreams—

Buck up,

I’m telling you—

you’re stealing from your life

to serve a false prophet."

Then God says, like a gut punch:

"You aren’t fit to be hers.

I know the future—

she’ll never be yours."

The alarm goes off.

I lie still,

alone,

left to grapple

with the

dis / en / tanglement

no one else made.