Amelia James Poetry

“Forgive as Christ forgave you,”
they echo in hymn-like insistence,
their voices a choir of guilt and grace,
hands pressing the weight of absolution
into my weary, unwilling palms.

But forgiveness, they forget,
isn’t a coin to barter my pain away.
It isn’t a hymn sung out of tune,
or a cross forced onto my back
as if the hurt were mine to carry alone.

I was broken by hands that promised love,
splintered by tongues that twisted truth,
and burned by silence
from those who chose the comfort of ignorance
over the sharp edges of accountability.

They say forgiveness is freedom—
a key to unlock the cell of my grief.
But they don’t see
how I sit in this prison not by my own design,
but because their lies built the walls.

They ask for forgiveness,
but where is the repentance?
Where is the truth,
laid bare like the altar they worship at?
Where is the sacrifice they demand of me,
offered back by the ones who broke me?

No.
Forgiveness cannot be forced.
It cannot be demanded
by those who sing psalms with lips
that once cursed my name.

My healing is not a transaction.
My grace is not a given.
And if I forgive, it will be a whisper
between me and my God,
not a gift they get to unwrap
or a stone I’m compelled to lay down.

Forgive, they say,
as though their words could rewrite my pain.
But I will forgive only when my heart is ready,
and not a moment sooner.
Until then, let them sit in the shadow
of their unspoken sins.

-Amelia James