He said I fell without a scream,

But I still heard the silence.

He asked why I turned away,

Why I left the balance.

I said—

You made me from the same flame

that hides behind your name.

You knew I’d ask,

You lit the match.

Don’t act surprised

by the ash.

He claimed He gave me wings,

light, songs, and praise.

And I replied—

Then why the clay?

Why ask the morning

to bow to gray?

He shaped him—

the blind one, the warm one—

and whispered, “He’s your brother.”

But I saw a puppet,

a soft lie with skin.

And I told Him:

Build your garden,

but not on my knees.

He said,

“I gave you freedom.”

I laughed.

You gave me fire

and told me not to burn.

You gave me the name

then flinched when I used it.

Now you call me fallen?

I am the consequence

you carved into the sky.

I did not hate the light—

I just wanted to see

who cast the shadow.

I told Him:

I am not your enemy.

I am your mirror.

You made me

and then you lied

about why.

So I walked.

And every star I passed

blinked in agreement.

That was the night

I spoke with God—

and neither of us

said goodbye.