When I pray,
I stand on my Father’s shoes.
I feel Him sway beneath me,
Leading me in a dance
Only He knows the steps to.

I screamed when the light hit me.
The sun seared my eyes.
I was used to dank sheets
And grey walls burdened by drapes.
The darkness was my friend.
For years, I was convinced
That it didn’t hurt me.
Because it did it slowly, softly, like
The words of someone
Who leaves you wanting.
Pleas and soft reasurrances—
“You don’t know. . .
. . .What’s out there.”
Can I not be afraid of the familiar?
Yet, it still took strong arms
To drag me outside.
And I screamed when my eyes
Hit the blinding light.
It was too warm.
I liked cold love, detached love,
Like a suffocating pillow.
Dark love that froze
My heart over time.
The warm light pierced everything
I thought I knew.
It reminded me what it felt
Like to be alive under God,
Instead of living to spite Love Himself.

She wears a wig
And a false beauty spot,
Followed by heady perfume
As her makeup melts
In the bright lights.

Am I her
In my
Faith?

It is not for me
To don a white
Powdered wig
And smash a
Wooden gavel.

Who am I to
Wear the robes
Of justice?

It is in God’s
Hands--

It always

has been.