I stifled a sob.
         As if that would change
The volume of my grief.
         The despair pooling
Around me
     Was enough to alert
Those with the loss of hearing,
     Their hearts
Full of a sound they had
      Never heard,
But gripped
          With their hands,
Their memory,  
          In the loudest feeling.

My anxiety was a feverish creature
Haphazhardly thrown in a cardboard
Box, small holes poked on the sides
So its yowls could still permeate my
Heart.
I clutched it tightly to my chest,
The monster scratching at the walls,
And placed it at the feet of
The One who Cares.

When I look back on my words
In the suffocating dredges
Of night, thoughts as fallen stars
And eyes refusing to close,
I wish for nothing more
Than to feel Your presence
Filling the hollows of my room
And the ghastly shadows I had
Envisioned as looming figures—
A gold-brushed light bathing
My insomniac regrets with
The love that is perfect
And unfailing, no matter
How much I doubt.

There is always a moment
when I wish I didn’t feel
like prey at the bottom
Of the ocean.

Did I teach myself to breathe
underwater, sinking and never
Coming up for air,
watching the surface
Grow darker and darker—
cold satin on my skin,
A thin film over gills,
Knowing I would never
kick my legs, flail my arms
Was it I,
who put myself here?

A cold wind in tired eyes,
Tears that spoke
Into the quiet dark--
A conversation
Of the pain I refused
To share,
Finding its place below
Dormant window sills--
Steeped in tea,
Sludgy beneath the stars--
A walk home
To a place that was really
Only a house.

I was walking in high heels
I did not realize
Were no longer there.
When I leaned backward,
Expecting support,
I only met the cold ground.

The hours began to pass
Like strawberry jam
On sourdough toast
In the morning.

Silk-thin pages flapping
In the gentle wind,

Birds of God’s creation
Squawking above.

The sun seeped through
The clouds like honey,
Droplets of joy, of

God’s presence.

Breathe in, breathe out,
The revival of the soul,
Hours gained as I
Rest in my Lord.

The word warbled
In my throat.
m a y b e. . .
I knew I could
Not make it work.
s o  w h y
Didn’t I just
Say no?

She was a torn tapestry,
A picture of indecision
As her life hang
In the balance—
A decorative plate,
Watching itself shatter
In the dormant hallway—

The sky was mottled paper,
Littered with the tear stains
Of stars.

I sat in a field of feathers,
Made from loved quills
And promises.

When I said fly me to the
Moon, I meant take me there
With your words.

The sharp corners of stairs,
A valley of ups and downs,
Housing a river of tears—
My struggles swelled at my
Ankles, slowly trying to rise.
If I did not climb forward,
Upward, towards my Father,
I would be drowned by this
World, caught in the Death
He had defeated on an old,
Waterlogged cross for the
Redemption of our souls.

Look at the time,
Its right on your wrist--
How could you have missed
That one little moment?
It seemed so very big
But to you,
I’m only a showman--
With nothing but lists
Of commands
And tired jazz hands

She never met his eyes.
it was not intentional,
Yet she knew it was not right.
Perhaps she was afraid
That once he saw the trellis
To her mind, he would climb inside
and realize she was a fraud.

The sharp corners of a door frame,
A body of hesitancy,
The tip of a shoe teetering,
Head caught in the claws of direction.
One wrong step,
And the corners curve,
Becoming an elegant arch,
A glance and a head tilt,
Wondering the source of fear preceding,
Blinded by internalization.
Clarity comes from recognizing
The extended hand
Beckoning from one side of decision.

Back slouched over,
Legs in a V,
Eyes blurring grass
Into a murky green.
Feeling *****
And used,
Sitting in the season
I was too worn out
To enjoy.

The timetable was slanted,
Askew in the dusty light.
No one had checked in,
Nor out, in years.
What was that sound,
That beating of the walls?
I stood in my empty heart.

A slow elevator and a full panel
Of glowing, numbered buttons—
I wait patiently, tapping my foot,
Smiling cordially as body after
Body enters the slicing doors,
Making it warmer, stuffier. 

My lungs fill slower as itchy

Fabric stands next to me,
(Awkward silence and futile
Attempts at small talk,)
But when my floor finally

Flashes above with a ding,
I cannot make it through
The throng of tentative
Hand gestures and pressed
Bodies—My arm barely slips
Through a gap, and I think
That my fingers will stop
The doors from closing--
But they only jam on my
Bones, crunching the knuckles
Before descending further,
Dragging my broken flesh
And screams lower and lower. 

Only then do the bodies shrink
Back against the walls,
Giving me space to fall to
My knees, gasping at the pain
And the dormant button of the
Floor to my missed exit.

You never did say

Those words
Your eyes implied.
I heard them
In my head, all lies.

He said my touch was soft,

         Gentle, the hands of a babydoll.

But he didn’t know how much

         They shook. How come that

Didn’t leave a mark, didn’t

          Mar the skin with callauses?

They wrung themselves dry,

           Holding my head, pressed under

My legs--all to stop the constant

           Murmur of jangling keys that

Coursed through them.

I feel the wrongness
In realization--
Safe on a small ottoman,
Memories aching--
They are yet to be made.
I worry they never will be.
My heart stutters,
The first awakening,
Panic sets in as I return
To the film set of my mistakes--
The tape begins rolling.
Take one, take two,
How can you stop a polaroid
From forming
Once the flash has gone off?
I worry my lessons learned
Are not enough.
Hide my face, pretend not to
See him enter the room--
I know,
I cannot
hide my heart
from You.

I let the anxiety crash over me,
Like a barreling wave—
The whitewash dragging me under,
My body a helpless doll
FIlled with the question of “up.”
My eyes stung from the salt
And my hair lassoed my throat,
Until I had no choice
But to succomb to the ravaging
And hope that I would, someday,
   come up for air.

The hourglass is waning,
I say to myself, staring at
It all day long, waiting for

It to run out, to prove me
Right. But why didn’t I use
That time? Why did I just
Stand there, watching it,
And myself, waste away?

If I held the knowledge
Of the day I would die—
My last hours on this earth,
What would I do?
I thought of all the ways
I would satisfy my flesh—
But the one man who knew
The time of His death,
Decided to wash feet
And bow His face to the dirt,
Glorifying His Father in
His final time of suffering.

Come down, dear,
That banister,
its higher than it appears.
Your small feet,
they slip so easily--
Climb down,
before the suspended
Bridge begs your ears.
I drowned once,
in my own refusal of answers--
I havent been that young
in years.
Pudgy hands and forming fear,
Free roam can lead you
anywhere.
Take my hand, dear,
Let me guide
the anxieties you hear;
Why listen
To desperate attempts
at mindless subterfuge--
Its more than one can bear.
Especially one so small,
so pure--
Come down, dear
Use the stairs.

Sending out doves,
Hopes on a shelf,
Past momentos
Gathered in dust,
The state of myself,
Immobile in mess,
Watching windows
For every answer,
Sunken deep under
Paralyzed duress.

I let the pool widen at my feet,
The vanity of myself leaking
From my body, gathering at
My ankles, forming an ocean.

One day, as I no longer relied
On my own strength, I saw
I was walking on the water
Of Grace.

Calm yourself down, child.
They spoke in gentle tones
Words suppressed, mild
Their reassurances
Sank uselessly like stones.
My fingers flicked away
Everything they claimed
To own--
Broken bones, a shriveled soul;
Who is a child
If not a fully inflated balloon,
Full to the bursting
Before scandalous wild
And shaking sorrow
Maliciously chipped away
Their countenance,
Puncturing the elastic
Until the vibrance
Lay in a thousand
Stretched pieces

His shirt flagged in the wind,
One of the marks designating
Danger, riptides.

There was a lankness to his
Frame, an objectivity to the
Way he stood.

He did not blink as salt flew
In his eyes—unmoving as the
Tide lapped.

His shoulders were pinched,
As if clothesline pins held him
To the spot.

The seagulls bawked at his
Indecision, the sea welcoming
Him into its folds.

Was it the cold of the waves
That showed him the warmth

Of his body?

The life had grown dormant
Inside of him, but he felt it
Then, unfurling.

No one called out for him,
Voices were plastic bags,
Litter in the wind.

His unexplained cowardice
Was his saving grace, the
Treasure unseen.

Pale yellow pages,
Torn at the sides,
The words thoughtful
As they fill up the
Ordained space—
His hand is smooth,
Full of love, using
Us as writing pads
To spread His grace.
We are flyers of the
Words He lays on our
Hearts, flitting in the
Wind, until He decides
We’re all out of pages—
Beauty returning to
Its likeness again.