There’s this utter weakness within my brittle bones. It’s a weakness that isn’t just a physical lacking, but an emotional cornerstone, supporting my belief that the oxygen I’ve used in my lifetime was stolen from someone else. And this weakness swirls simultaneously amidst these violent waves within me that are too strong. My veins are pulsing, and I feel too hardened and broad to handle anything delicate or lovely. I’m storming through everything in life, turning luxurious memories and pleasures into dust underneath my heavy feet. My frail heart can’t handle for its breath to be taken away and my body is hardened to the summer rain that tries to kiss my skin.

I want to try again

I’m sorry for turning you

A    R   O   U    N    D   A   N   D   A   R   O   U   N   D   A   N    D   A   R   O   U   N   D   A   N   D   A   R   O   U   N   D   A   N   D   A   R   O   U    N   D

making you stumble and fall.

But I’m even sorrier for getting upset when you don’t see me, after you finally stand back up again.

You’re one of those songs
Leading me to the apple orchards
Unlacing my sneakers
And whispering “let’s go”
You sing as we leap through the trees
Breathlessly, I let out a love filled sigh
Whimsy fills my lungs
As I open my mouth to sing along

I. I am ’(almost)’ personified. 

II. My lungs can’t handle for their breath to be taken away
because the oxygen I’m breathing these days
is borrowed anyways.
It hesitates to enter in because it’s apparent
that this element
isn’t in its element
in my element.

III. When you continuously repeat a word
it starts to sound mispronounced
and I wonder if that’s what happened
whenever people told me i’m worth(y)

IV. Inhale.
Exhale.

V. I know that life is just a shot in the dark with Thee, but
dammit, God, do You even hear my pleas
for some sort of ‘yes’?
or even a ‘no,’ I don’t care where We go;
I just want to know.

What’s the difference between a missionary and a lover?

I feel like a fool
For planning a trip to the Grand Canyon
And dreaming of Christmas
In North Carolina mountains

When I answered the phone
With a choked hello
My heart already knew you had called to say
You weren’t coming home
(to me)

(I ask; I’ll receive: a resolution)

I asked Him to build me with honesty, the same honesty that led Him from the Garden of Gethsemane and nailed Him up on that God forsaken tree. Because I’m tired of being what I believe is a portrayed image of me- mistress folly, mystery isn’t sexy- it’s holy, it’s set apart because it’s something you can’t smell taste hear touch or see unlike you- because I see right through you. You’re as sick as your secrets and you just can’t see it because you’re knocking back drinks hoping you’ll find a more bearable reality. But this is it- so embrace this current state of things because it breaks my heart that you’re only honest when you have the freedom to wake up not remembering the truth.

I asked Him to paint me the different hues of purples and blues,  the color of a bruise, with freckles of yellow and green. The kind of bruise you get from pressing your knees into the floor so deep whenever you’re crying out at heaven waiting for a response. The kind of bruise that you keep touching just to see how much it hurts. One that you can be proud of because you know you’ve earned it. I want to be a color that indicates I’m growing and being made more new and whole than I was before.

I asked Him to take my poetry through healing, I want it to go from hurting to hopeful because to me- regardless of what anyone thinks- it’s too lovely to keep suffering internally. Wrap me in empathy, courage, gentleness, and creativity. Name me hope. Name me authenticity.

I asked Him to give me new feet. I want a dancer’s feet with blisters that know the friction of moving across a bare floor with repetition, repetition, repetition. I want to be content with the mundane because repetition, repetition, repetition doesn’t invalidate the movement of the human body. I want an explorer’s feet rough from walking day after day over whatever lots they are cast, having the faith to believe that they will hold me up, with the weight of a nail, rising and falling as they inevitably will, taking me home.

Closed Doors

My flesh feels left behind, body outside of mind. “In between” the pull of my finger on the trigger; the thumb of God and His finger; the walk from door to door.

My spirit fights a cough in my throat to sing- say “ahhhh.” I cough. When doors are closed, I want to dance to eucharisteo. But this paralysis is like this- this infection of excuses spreading throughout my body, the beep beep beep of the machine flat lining “lay down and rest, it’s so easy” despondency overcomes me. Pain paints the walls of my funeral home, over the lines remembering the days I would stand up straight and let Dad measure me, “beloved, you’re growing!” and I forget it’s even possible. I forget anything is possible with G- I cough.

Dear body, don’t listen to mind. Dear body, be free. Dear body, be somebody.

Dear God, I just want to be somebody.

Instead I cough; I sleep.

I dream of home sweet Jesus Christ made of windows.

I write my prayers on my skin so on nights like this, their light burning in the darkness keeps me awake instead of this-I cough. A scripted story of my scars meeting His.

When doors close your ears hear them sing or whisper or scream, but it all comes down to hearing His breath in the hinges. And I do- I hear it in the distance like my mother’s voice when it was time to come in.

Dear God, let me in.

I take another step in the between. I cough.

Dear God, let remember how to breathe.

All I want to do is sing sel-I cough. Sing sel- I cough… SING SELAH! I fight to sing because I fight to breathe and there isn’t a breath that doesn’t sing syllables of his name. I’ll keep singing because I will keep breathing until I die or I will die.

I hear him knocking. From behind a door a few fronts down the street.