It took years for me to know that you were not real.

Instead of brimstone and fire, you were made of light shining through the top of my curtains and my imagination.

Every night before I closed my eyes, you peered down on me.

Every night, I prayed that God would make me good.

Every day, I knew that you made me bad; 

No Sunday School lesson or offerings to the white plastic miniature chapel would absolve my sin.

Then I learned about light and dark and shadows. 

I learned about grace and salvation and forgiveness.

It took years for me to learn that you are not real.