Glitter-Gel-Pen Theology

In Year Eight, I wrote prayers
in purple glitter ink
so God would not mistake them
for homework.

Dear God,
please make him notice me.
Also, world peace.

The glitter bled through the page,
tiny constellations staining the desk.
My teacher called it excessive.

I called it emphasis.

Years later, I no longer bargain
with the sky about boys.
But I still believe in shimmer.
In the holiness of wanting.
In the way a sentence can sparkle
even when it says
I am afraid.

If faith survives,
it will not arrive in thunder.
It will arrive
like glitter in carpet:

impossible to remove,
proof that something bright
once happened here.