I would rather wander the inferno with your memory in my chest than sit among angels with an empty heart.
They say love like ours is a sin — whispered about in sermons, erased in prayers, tucked behind polite silence. They tell me there is no place in heaven for the kind of love that dares to hold another woman’s hand.
But if heaven demands that I unlove you, then what kind of paradise is that? What kind of God would ask me to tear the most human part of myself apart?
Because in the quiet, when the world isn’t watching, I still pray — and my God still listens.
My God sees me as I am: flawed, tender, human, in love.
My God doesn’t flinch when I say your name; He smiles, because He made a heart that knows how to love this deeply.
They may call it fire.
They may call it wrong.
But to me, it’s holy — every touch, every look, every small miracle of choosing each other in a world that tells us not to.
If loving you means walking through flames, then so be it. The inferno is warm. It feels like home.
And I’d rather burn beside you, certain of love, than stand in heaven’s light pretending I’ve never known it.
Because in the eyes of my God, I am not wrong.
I am loved.
And so are you.
