What kind of Christ are you?

You're so stupid.
You sit there on your polished couch and judge the world. Yet you're so blind to the pain you cause that you call your works good.
I'd blame it on your youth but we both know that you pride yourself in your maturity. Deep as a pond of water, you speak of a Christ you do not know, or at least, do not know well. You claim to care but refuse to listen. You pretend to love, but you cannot see.
The pain inside you is killing your love. And you call it relying on God.
I call it a joke.
So sit there, using a shiny laptop as a shield from real conversation. Go ahead and love the ones that are easy to love, and ignore the ones who are dying inside. By all means, call yourself a good person and lie to me once again. Pretend to be smarter than you really are and call me stupid.
Get angry at me because I need help. But don't you dare give me any.
Sink your venom into my flesh, because it makes you feel better about yourself. I've been bitten before, so I must be able to take it. Make excuses that my blood runs watered down with poison. It tastes like honey when you lick your lips, but it burns like lava when it melts your soul.
Run away and rescue the needy in a foreign land, but forget the mission at home. Skim along the edges of the perfect ones, but don't reach out to the dirty handed. If you get to close, your heart will be consumed. If you get to close, you might find it hurts to love. It's so much easier to love the perfect. I understand that. I wish I didn't love you too.
All along, the Christ inside calls out, "Why do you hate me when all I do is love you?"
And I ask, what kind of Christ are you?
I wish I didn't crave your attention so much. It would make this so much easier.