you say; he said

written circa autumn 2014.
about a topic that is often taboo, with a word that is bad, but a story that is true. truth is messy. but Jesus isn’t afraid to walk into the mess to save the broken lamb.

you say my name is it.
that i am not worthy of proper pronouns.
no, those are for the dignified. the beautiful.
and you whisper, “you are not either of those things.”

you say that i am a pretty girl
but i’ve learned to know your words are lies
and you say these things solely to get me into the backseat
of your broken down hyundai.
because i am not allowed the privilege of your bed
because i am not allowed the privilege of dignity.

you say that psychologies lied and really
the parts are greater than the sum of the whole
because if i were just three holes for you to fuck
then i might be worth something.

you say that you know what is best for me
when you take my innocence and touch me
all over. and i am quiet. because that
is what i was taught a woman should be.

you say these things and your words burrow
under my skin and into my bloodstream.
the darts your words have fired infect my every synapse
and now this life is what i crave.

i swallow the pills. i am binge drinking and
starving. i etch tally marks into my wrist with
his razor blade and i feel the shame hot and heavy.

i seek out the things and the people who promise
to give me pleasure in the form of pain and chains
but at the end of every performance
for strange men
who sit in anonymous rooms
– those who i give my power to {power i never knew i had} –
i find myself up on the roof daring myself
to find the courage to jump.

at the end of every climax i find myself staring down
the barrel of the loaded handgun
wishing i had the nerve
to pull the trigger.

but it doesn’t end there.

a person named Hope whispers into my soul
and i am captivated by the voice. this Hope appears to me
in my prison and extends a gauze covered hand.

Jehovah Rapha takes the bandages from his own nail scarred wrists;
He wraps them around my wounds and carries me into the light.
Yeshua presents me with fine linen, jewellery, and crown.

does he see my wounds and simply not know
the story of my debauchery behind them…
or does he see my bruises and and know
the details of each one, and see something
that i cannot?

because i have no idea why he has whispered to me.
i cannot fathom why perfection would want broken.

but in my wondering and doubts Jehovah spins me around
twirling me in his arms; dancing as one would with a lover.
he whispers sweet words that become the melody
that will now and forevermore play in the background
if i leave my thoughts and listen.

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