False Prophet- Featured Poet Trisha Orbe

You touch like a thief.
You fuck like a ghost—
disappearing mid-sentence,
mid-sob,
mid-dream.

You pray with one hand
and unzip your lies with the other.
You wear your “spirituality”
like a condom that never fits,
a halo made of stolen poems
and Instagram quotes
you don’t even live by.

You preach divine masculinity
and forget that divinity doesn’t
lie,
ghost,
fuck,
discard.

How dare you dress yourself in light
while dragging women through your shadows?

You say:
“I see your soul.”
And we believe you.

We believe you because we want to be seen
so fucking badly
we hand you our wounds like offerings.
We let you in.
We let you name us.

And you—
you just wanted a new place to come.
A body to conquer
under the guise of connection.
Another story to harvest
for your fragile ego.

You fed us dreams as foreplay.
You unzipped hope
with that velvet voice
and planted promises in our mouths
like we were gardens,
like we were soil,
like we were yours.

But you never wanted to grow anything.
Just wanted to watch things bloom—
and die.

You are not holy.
You are not light.
You are not sacred.

You are a boy in a man’s cloak,
spouting scriptures with your zipper down,
writing poetry with a bloody pen
and calling it divine.

You collect women
like crystals,
like charms,
like trophies,
like open wounds.

And still—
you call it “healing.”

You should come with a fucking warning:
Beware.
Will speak in God but act in Ghost.
Will see you—until he doesn’t.
Will say love. Will mean lust.
Will hold light. But not for you.

I am not bitter.
I am not broken.
I am not some lesson in your story arc.

I am the fire.
The mirror.
The reckoning.
The end of your fucking sermon.