An Ode to Loneliness

I been fighting so long,

my prayers sound like war cries now.

Every “amen” feels like a weapon I barely know how to swing

and still… I swing.

One battle after another,

storms stacking like unpaid bills,

grief collecting like interest I never agreed to.

Every time I think I can rest,

life whispers, “Not yet.”

And I’m back in the ring

bare-knuckled against shadows that know my name.

I’ve learned silence can scream louder than any siren.

It echoes in my bones,

those lonely nights when my heart won’t stop aching, shaking from the pain.

People say, “You’re strong you got this.”

But they never see the part where strength looks like

curling up in the corner of your own faith,

whispering to God through tears,

“Please don’t let me break again.”

There’s a kind of loneliness that doesn’t just ache

it hunts.

It waits until your chest is hollow,

until you start to believe that peace must live somewhere beyond this life.

Then...It starts whispering sweet invitations to the nothingness,

convincing you that silence might be safer than hope,

that rest might mean disappearing into it.

And I’ve stood at that edge,

staring into the quiet,

wondering if the pain would finally stop if I just… let go.

But then...

Immanuel...

Not loud, not with thunder or fire,

just a still small voice that said, “Stay. I’m still here.”

And somehow, that was enough to pull me back.

See, trauma has a way of making your soul forget its song.

It teaches you to hold your breath

in rooms that used to feel safe.

It makes you build walls from ashes,

then wonder why the light can’t get in.

But Yeh'weh...

He meets me in the rubble.

He don’t flinch at the mess.

He rolls up His sleeves,

places His hand on my trembling chest,

and says, “Breathe, child. You’re still Mine.”

And I do.

I breathe.

Through the loneliness, through the ache, through the silence that tastes like salt and survival.

I breathe.

‘Cause even when my faith feels like it’s bleeding,

it’s still alive.

Even when I’m crawling through nights so dark

my tears can’t find the floor,

He’s there

the steady pulse in my panic,

the whisper in the air saying,

“You are not forsaken.”

And maybe that’s what victory really looks like

not a roar,

but a whisper that still believes.

Not the absence of battle,

but the presence of Spirit in the midst of it.

So if you see me standing,

just know

it wasn’t strength,

it was surrender.

It wasn’t willpower,

it was grace.

And every scar I wear

is proof that I was never fighting alone.

‘Cause I’ve learned

sometimes Creator doesn’t remove the storm,

SHe just teaches you how to walk on water through it.

And I…

I’m still walking.

Still breathing.

Still believing.

Still here.

The last one standing...

but never alone.

A poem by

N'gamé 🦋