The Lie We Called Love by Evelyn Hively They told me love was holy, wrapped in silk and psalms, a covenant of aching hearts held in trembling, bloodstained palms. They etched it into sermons, breathed it through the stained glass light— that love was patient, pure, and kind, and always, always right. But love was just a weapon masquerading as a dove, a leash made out of scripture tied around the neck of love. They said it conquered all things, even sin, even shame— but somehow in its shadow I was always the one to blame. So I learned to mistrust whispers, to question every prayer, because the ones who preached of mercy never really cared. Love was the lie religion was taught— not a river, but a cage, not a haven, but a fire feeding off my silent rage. Now I walk through sacred silence with a bitter, quiet nod— I still believe in love, just not the one they sold as God