My God Is Not Your God
Dayna J. Francois
The God I grew up with spoke through fire and brimstone, wore a collar too tight to breathe, and had a Bible for a fist. He lived in the rafters of my childhood home, watched me like a judge with a gavel, tallied my sins in a ledger so heavy it made my back ache.
Your God, the one you told me to fear, was not love. He was surveillance. He was the creak of the floorboards when I snuck out to breathe, the weight of a cross pressed onto my chest like a branding iron. And when I prayed, I wasn’t asking for grace. I was begging for a way to shrink small enough to fit into your heaven.
But I’ve learned that some gods have barbed wire for halos. That some sermons are knives wrapped in ribbons of “righteousness.” That there are sanctuaries built on the backs of the broken, their stained-glass windows casting shadows instead of light.
So, I packed my faith into a suitcase and left the house my father built. I traded the pews for poetry, the hymns for healing, and somewhere between the shame they taught me and the truth I found, I realized: My God is not your God.
My God speaks in soft whispers, wears hoop earrings and a knowing grin. She has coffee stains on her scriptures, pauses mid-verse to say, “Baby, don’t let anyone make you feel unworthy.” My God dances barefoot in the rain and tells me my queerness is not a footnote in her story, but a highlight.
My God doesn’t ask me to repent for the love I carry in my bones. She says, “Dayna, your heart is a cathedral, where every kiss is a prayer, and your laughter is a choir.”
Your God taught me shame.
My God taught me to unlearn it.
Because I’ve kissed girls and felt the sky split open. Because I’ve held their hands and known a peace your commandments could never offer me. Because I’ve stood in front of a mirror, looked at my reflection, and thought: This is holy.
I am holy.
And no, I won’t pray to your God anymore. Not the one who told me to shrink, to repent, to fear the fire. Because I’ve walked through flames and survived, not because of him, but in spite of him.
So when you say, “Do you believe in God?” I’ll say, “Not yours.” Because mine loves me just as I am: sapphic disaster, hoop earrings, and all
Charith Denson is an empathetic storyteller, expressive artist, and multifaceted creative with a deep love for culture and connectedness.
Dayna J. Francois is a Haitian-born, queer poet, storyteller, and podcast host whose work explores the intersections of identity, love, grief, faith, and self-reclamation. Adopted at two and a half years old and raised as a pastor’s daughter, she navigates the complexities of queerness, religion, and personal growth with unflinching honesty. Her poetry is both deeply introspective and boldly declarative, weaving vivid imagery with raw emotion to unravel the contradictions of desire, loss, and self-discovery.
With a voice that balances tenderness and fire, Dayna’s writing often examines the ways in which we build and unbuild ourselves: how we inherit, break free from, and redefine the narratives imposed upon us. Whether reflecting on love that lingers like an unfinished sentence, the quiet ache of familial distance, or the resilience found in choosing oneself, her work speaks to the power of claiming one’s story.
Beyond poetry, Dayna is the host of a podcast that embodies the ethos of being gay, being hot, and doing things for the plot, blending humor, vulnerability, and candid conversations about queerness, relationships, and self-exploration. She is also working on her debut poetry collection, A Pastor’s Daughter Falls from Grace, which chronicles her journey of unlearning, unbecoming, and stepping fully into herself.
Her work has been described as a sapphic confessional, a reckoning, and an offering; one that invites readers to take what resonates and leave the rest.
Instagram: @daynajfrancois // @Stirringtheplotpod
Stirring the Plot, hosted by Dayna J. Francois is streaming on Spotify and Apple Podcasts.
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