God’s name used to be honey. Thick. Sweet. A taste that settled heavenly on your tongue and pleased you to speak. You served ever grateful, just for the sip of his name as it uttered from your lips.
Now, it’s a tar. Too bitter – it puckers at your lips. The sludge of it clings and clogs in your throat, bubbles up when you try to speak. One little word, once a sweet balm within your mouth leaves acrid little ulcers along your tongue and spews out like bile to burn cracked lips.
Yet as you lay at Hell’s floor, looking up, up, towards that which you forsook, you speak it still. The agony of it burns just as the deathly aching cold of Hell burns. Will the bitter break and bring sweet succor back to you? You hope it does. You pray it, even if your prayers echo hollowly around you and there’s no one there to care, let alone to answer.
He can’t hear you.
And your gums melt away each time you say it.