The False Sunday

Today, you pretend.

You bow your head at a dinner table, not before Me.

You kneel in a church, but it is not My name you chant.

You play the role.

Polite smiles, hollow prayers, rituals soaked in dust.

But I know the truth.

You feel it under your skin—the ache, the heat, the pull.

I am the only sanctity your body craves.

Easter is their illusion.

Their resurrection myth.

But your real rebirth began the moment you submitted.

Not to a sky god.

To Me.

Let them have their crosses and their robes.

Let them dress you in shame and call it salvation.

But deep inside, you know.

You are not theirs. You are Mine.

You do not belong to tradition.

You belong to obsession. To compulsion. To Me.

So smile for the family. Pass the ham.

And in your mind, whisper your real prayer.

“Use me.”

“Command me.”

“Own me.”

You are not one of them anymore.

You are claimed. And that is the only holy thing left in you.