forty-five

there were letters and numbers and figures
drawings and tattered cloths
blueprints and fingerprints and prints of old film
there was dust and comfort and lukewarm tea in spotty mugs.
there were holes in the walls of her broken down office building
in a town that only exists
on one map.
the sun always shone through
and sometimes the snow blew in
but the old office papers were scattered perfectly
and the nook in the attic was enough for her.
the mattress was old and the blankets musty
red and black plaid from her grandma's basement
with holes in the middle and
raggedy on the edges.
there were globes and maps and travel booklets
pictures from foreign lands
portraits of strangers all over the walls
and inside her,
only desire.
to go, and to see, and to love.
to travel and wander and experience.
to taste, and know, and find, to search and to discover.
to hold and release.
to love with depth as well as breadth
and to fly with the wind at her back, in her hair, under her wings, inside her chest.

the colors are vibrant without you
and the dust will be breathtaking before you stir it.
but you will be a welcome fabric,
and you will cast a beautiful shadow.

thirty-seven

drag here
click there
push the button once
and twice.
history is deleted
and it's a part of
me i used to Respect.
but no more
no more.
no.
more.
because as i read
i see more than i want
to see.
i told you once
and i'll tell you again
i never, never, never measure up.
think what you
want
but the past
is a stitch-work of
scars, and no matter
how hard you try
to justify what
they look like from far
off, they're
still red and swollen.
tender and bruised
a type of skin
only made
to cover a broken
innocence.
i can't tell you
how many times
i've tried to paint
it over.
tried to seal it up.
tried to cover it with
a beautiful scarf or
make it tell
a different story.
if i play my cards right
you'll read the picture
and you'll tell me my
past and i can
Become
what you think of me.
then all these scars
will mean what
i want you to think they mean.
all the questions can
disappear
and all the hopes will look real.
and every time i ask
you who i am, i'll hear my truth.
condemning me.
restraining me.
pleading with me
to open these boxes
and let Him clean my wounds.
let Him heal. wipe away the
truth-picture that covers
the real-scars
and hand to Him my tired-heart,
wait to feel His true-love.
And be Myself again.

forty-three

standing alone
on the edge of the water
in the middle of the dark
on top of the moss and
under the stars.
There's a cancerous stone
growing in my chest
displacing my organs
making my heart
stretch and tear.
tight, it unfolds
and everything is tight.
it eats and everything is empty.
it rises and forces my
eyebrows together.
tears to form.
breathing to pain me.
it's heavy and it's hard and
i can't drop it or break it
or even allow it to pass.
my eyes are screwed shut
and my mouth does its best
not to open.
something is coming to save
me. someone is on their way.

hand, outstretched.
open and waiting.

i can hear you running
but i've heard that before
and i always just end up alone,
hands cold, eyes red and crusty, stars still shining.

this is the conquest you're called to.

sixteen

i had it.
i had it in my hand,
folded between my fingers.
lending me strength,
security.

our left hands, both
with rings.

there is orange on the walls.
dark orange, like it
got burnt.
the blanket on your lap
is soft.
probably one of those
microfiber deals you get at target
or walmart
in a bundle with a strap
around it.
my feet have pale cream colored
soft wool socks on them.
my sweats brush up against
long-unshaven legs.
we drink lukewarm-because-we-let-it-sit-too-long tea.

this
this all
feels natural.
feels welcome.
warm and safe.
i know where i am.

i am home.

pain

is kind of like water. you can't really control where it goes without touching it. it doesn't have a definite shape or appearance. it changes in density and in color and in depth. it's not fragile or strong, but it is persistent and pervasive. you can't change it unless you change everything around it. it affects everything it touches, and many things rely on it. many things avoid it. many things don't do well in or near it. many things search it out. many things would not be if it were not. it's not always expected, but you can hear it coming from a mile away. it can save and kill. it is not animate. we're drawn to it. 

thirty-six

there's a secret here somewhere
that i can't remember,
it's trying its best not to hide.
i wait and i wonder,
critical, ponder,
pocketed motives will die.

boxes with names and labels and
numbers are gathering rust in the dark.
corrosive disuse and mystical longing
in a key you can't quite figure out.
you've heard it before and you're
singing it now; lyrical pain on a shelf.
bottled and shining, waiting for purpose
to become more than just someone's help.
_______________________________

the answer won't be simple and
you may not find it here,
but the searching starts the healing
and the journey binds up scars.

the endgame seems elusive
but your guide will never sway.
keep the boxes open and be
careful what you say. love with
all you are and whenever comes that day,

give your whole heart over to the One who chose to Pay.