I am nothing.
I smile with the thought.
Because Jesus

Is Everything.

Commitment.
It was a suitcase,
by the door.

Alligator skin
& a sqeaky wheel.

How many
times

Have I
watched it

Disappear?

“I never meant to be the villain in your story."

  I could say it as much as I liked.

It would still

Never fix

Anything.

The words lay flat on their faces,
Trembling in fear,
As if they saw the shiny granite
Of a bank floor,
Men in black ski masks yelling
Confused orders,
And wished their loved ones
Could hear them
As they chanted the words
So often shrouded
In petty arguments and

The illusion of
Several more years.

There is one phrase that we all
Know the definition of--a word
That has a thousand tangled
Up meanings, but one we accept
In society as positive & empty
Because it is easier than addressing
The bloodshot eyes & blank stares
That it conceals—I say: “I am fine.”
Do you believe me? No. But, still,
I will continue to say it. Our paths
Cross like an icy voyage, a silent
Relationship that will be forgotten
Once our forced proximity fades
Away, eventually. I almost
Said something, once--but I
Couldn't seem to meet your eyes,
And the only words that came
From my mouth were: "I'm fine."
The next time I say it, will you
Walk the other way? Will I?

It was drenched in the weight
Of water from free-flowing rivers,
Cut from the beams of an old,
Soulful church, pulling me away
From the temporary things that
Surrounded, and into the presence
Of my benevolent Father.
Let the world fall away
in prayer.

The thoughts dawdled
As they walked through
The valves of my heart.
They repeated “I, I, I”
As if it were a passkey,
Fueling the sedation
That sunk into my body,
The darkness making
My limbs heavy and my
Head loll to the ground.
With every thought I
Made about me, the
Deeper I felt I was
N ot  W orthy

Iron on Iron—
Sparks of God’s glory
Flying from the interaction.
Seeds of growth
Burning holes in the curtains
Of the sins we justify.
Light on light,
Illuminating a dormant candle
To the glow of Jesus.
Iron on Iron,
Sharpening one another's
Swords of faith.

I set out to answer the question
Of how much weight simple words
Could hold—could they crush
Shoulders, evicerate hearts like
A falling anvil? Or were they more
Like acid rain, almost soft and gentle,
Unseeming until they sting more
Than water? There is always so much
Weight on my chest, and I suppose
It must be from the countless, heavy

Words left unsaid; but I don’t want
To be the hands to heave an anvil
On some unsuspecting bystander’s

Head--or the clouds sprinkling
Deadly tears onto unblemished skin. 

How much weight can words hold?
But I think the question is more
Accurately: how much weight are
We willing to transfer onto others?

The fragility of my heart
Was pressed into a thinly
Chained locket, grown
Pale and tarnished
In the hands
Of all those who 

Thought they knew me.

They tried to pry me open,
Breaking their nails in
The attempt to
Find the one thing
That kept their words
From hurting me.

But if they opened the
Heart-shaped cavity, they

Would find only the
Emptiness that reminded
Me of the world’s promises
And their futility.

A necklace of the World
Could not hold the Love
God had threaded into
My heart for eternity.

I was a chipped mosaic
Set into the worn sidewalk
Of a town who no longer
Celebrated its culture.

I was the old, dusty streetlamp
That disruped the orderly line
Of brightness along the road.

I was the floorboard
That buckled and sent
Children sprawling to
The floor.

I was the cabinet that never
Fully closed, its hinges forever
Remaining unoiled.

I was the rocking chair
That sat eerily still—
Old memories trapped
In the wood.

The only thing I can do today
is breathe.
--Feel the air move slowly, quietly,
begrudgingly through my chest.
The pressure of the world squeezes in,
and I try to walk, try to use my limbs.
But all of my energy is occupied
by the simple act
of breathing.

I had lost my voice—

Was it from screaming,

Or staying silent?

He cries with us

Even when He

Knows our tears

Are unnecessary.

There are hands against my temples,
Pressing, squeezing, building tension
Like a band slowly constricting
Around my head, over my eyelids.
I squint and continue my day,
Knowing my knuckles won’t be able

To massage the aching away--
Even as I force myself to focus
And ignore the whiplash of a knife
Slashing through my mind—
I am only as present as the willpower
I possess, despite my pain.

The moment was negligible;
It was a sparse bridge
Of minutes, simply hanging
In the air. I could have sat
And stared at the wall.
I could have sighed
And pulled out my phone.
But a niggling, patient voice
Broke into my thoughts,
And weighed heavily
Upon my neck,
Until my head bowed
And my hair fell over my ears,
Turning a couple lost minutes
Into a private conversation
With God.

I wish I could say
That I never envisioned
My soft hands surrounded,
Encapsulated, by yours—
The rough skin like a shield
Against the world.

But that simply

Wouldn't

be true.

There was a stain on my shirt,
Small and pebble-sized,
Barely visible to the naked eye.
But I could feel it above
My heart, and I pressed my hand
To it, trying to cover
Any semblance of imperfection—
I rubbed cold water
Into the fabric, anxiety-ridden
As I scrubbed, scrubbed,

Scrubbed, looking over my shoulder,

As if I would be caught
For a crime unintentionally committed.
I should have known
That washing my faults in worldy water
Would never remove
The stains it had caused. I soaked the
Cloth in tears and
Kneeled before my Father, bowed. 

“Make me new,”
I said, “In your love, Lord, make me
Who you intended me
To be in the womb.” I cried.
The fabric remained
The same, for it was only a shirt,
But my heart began
To thaw and the wounds marring it
From every sin
I tried to hide from God, were
Gently stitched together
With new, soft flesh, in His love.

I am not even good enough
For a panic attack
To seize me.
The anxiety holds
Every part of me, only to let
Go, figuring I am
Not worthy.

I downplayed my emotions
For a living.

I glossed over them
With serious, diplomatic
Expressions, until my heart
Couldn’t tell the difference.

With every feeling that
Pushed its way to the surface,
I hung glasses and a fake
Mustache over its features,
Disguising it into something
I could live with.