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.

redemption psalm

written circa april 2014
this was written as part of my church’s 10 week redemption immersion counseling course. the assignment was to write your own psalm. redemption is based upon the book of the same name by mike wilkerson of mars hill church in seattle. it take participants through the book of Exodus and relates the journey of the Hebrews to their own individual journey. for more information you can find the book here and information about redemption groups here.

it’s getting late. the darkness sets in and i am trapped here, trapped by this thing, trapped by my brain, my heart, my disastrous willpower. my eyes are transfixed. (i wish i could quit but it’s in my blood and now i am bound)

it rationalizes itself. (it’s funny how all demons know just the right argument to snare each victim). it’s tells me it’s no different from the words i hear from the mouth of the preacher man. they use the same words. there is a parallel. it is what i was created for. submissive. submission. submit. be good. obedient.

i want it out of me. no matter how much i claw at my flesh and empty my stomach into the shower drain it’s still there, tainting my blood and flooding my thoughts. but i guess this is the price i must pay for allowing myself to be consumed.

penance for a wicked heart.

there is irony in it. it makes you wish so much to be trapped that you don’t even know it’s already got you bound.

but it’s not enough to simply consume. this thing wants more, is never satisfied. it’s lures me deeper. it makes me go deeper into the underground.

i want to go deeper. i am curious and i need it. i need it.

my nerves have fault lines and an earthquake erupts with every thought. i quake at random times and feel ashamed for the thoughts in my head. they’re always there. get them out. get them out. i beat myself and bruise myself to try and stop the earthquake. i’ve stopped going out around people because i know they can see the earthquakes. i know i am stained by this thing and i know they can see it. i am ashamed.

it’s taken all feeling from inside me and i now know i am dead. i watch myself mimicking the performances i have seen… for men i don’t know and will never meet. i’m sharing the gospel of lust and i feel both loved and used.

i just want to be loved and this is how you get love, right? by exposing your flesh to men. then they will love you… right?

but in the chaos i feel something in the pit of my heart. something is off. something feels wrong.

i hear a whisper in the middle of the shouting and the moaning. i hear a whisper. just one word. come. my brain freezes and i start to cry. this voice seems so gentle, how is it part of this horrible world too? come/cum. this word, it haunts me.

the whisperer breathes again. come away. come away with me.

there is a stirring in the same spot in my heart. pulsing in a place i had long thought frozen. i get up… transfixed by this new voice. it leads me to the preacher man’s book, to a place where i feel the way this thing promised it would. one of many broken promises.

i want to dance with this newfound beauty. to put on the new dress and spin in circles with the whispering voice who calls himself Father. he fills me with joy and laughter. with him i am alive. i think i smile for the first time in so many moons.

but it doesn’t last. the voice in my head, the thoughts have found me in this hiding place. they beckon me back to “where i belong.” the say that what i have here isn’t real. they talk. they convince. and like a dog returns to it’s vomit i too return to the darkness, to the place with the prison walls, to the place where i am not allowed to dance.

but something changed since i left. it’s like the scales have been removed and i can see the deception for what it is. i can see what i am doing and i am disgusted. i am ashamed.

but there is no way i could go back to the dancing Father with his gifts and his love, right? his love. it was different.

i hear the whisper again. this time a similar but different voice. it says beloved. it doesn’t call me to come away. it reaches a hand to pull me closer, to pull me back to the field of the lilies where i danced.

in the field i fall at my knees. i don’t deserve this kindness. i don’t deserve this kind of love. tears like rivers fall from my eyes and i know i am too tainted to be here. i can’t be here. i’ll taint the Father and the one who calls me beloved. i’ve hurt them and i can’t do that. somehow i know they are pure, too pure to even look at me.

but the man who pulled me away takes my chin in his scarred hands and lifts up my face to look me right in the eyes. and… and he… he smiles.

i feel my heart shatter and i gasp. i collapse into this shepherd’s arms. i try to speak, but his finger goes to my lips. the heart that shattered, my heart, is in his hand. he crushes it and it blows away in the wind. a new heart doth he give me. it’s his. his.

and i finally know that i am forever loved. i am the woman kissing his feet and anointing him with oil. i am the woman redeemed. i am the woman forever grateful. i am loved. i am not ashamed.

omens

written 02 november 2009.
backstory: one night i woke up in the middle of the night and reached for something on my night table. when i pulled my hand back it was smeared with blood. freaked out i rolled back over and curled into my blankets and soon fell back to sleep. the next morning there was no trace of blood, but there were several text messages from a friend about an accident involving a mutual friend that had happened at the same time the blood appeared.

i drape my hand across my dresser late
at night, reaching for something that is
not there.

when my hand comes back red, smelling
like dirty copper and old rusty pipe i gasp.
water ran for no reason out of my faucet
never before had this happened. in surprise
i knew some omen, some force had come.

emergency, emergency.
oh, doctor. doctor why?

i received omens last night, but mistook
them for fear. now i see what that has done.
i shall not fear, but only wail.

things i’ll never say.

written 08 november 2009.
things that i’ll never say; post therapy musings. an old poem i’m quite fond of.

“tell me a little about yourself.”

i burn myself on the heated board at
work every time i make a mistake.
it’s become a game to see how many
seconds i can last before i move my
hand. (i put it back a minute later)

sometimes i pick up cups of coffee
and hot soup even though people
warn me that it’s too hot. i just want
to know what it’s like to feel warm.

“what did you do today?”

i stared at my fish for two hours
today. as i watched him swim around
in his little bowl i was envious of his
life. spending all day swimming in circles,
rediscovering his plant every time he
passes it. (sometimes i wish we could
trade places)

today i wore a tank top and shorts
because i’m already cold, and
walking around in the cool autumn
night makes me feel less numb (it’s
weird, but i have to do it)

“do you want to talk about it?”

i want to yell and scream and raise
my voice but when i try to speak
all that comes out is this tiny, timid
thing that is nothing more than a
little whisper. (talking is becoming
increasingly difficult)

aphasia

written circa 2010
aphasia: (n) loss of ability to understand or express speech.

words stream into my head at awkward angles and incomplete sentences. syllables bunch and smooch together as the rain pours down on my windshield, too blinding for sounds to carry much meaning.

my nerves have fault lines running through them because i shake when i try to talk.

i get tied down in semantics and morphemes, consonants and vowels weaving bright white hot lines into my brain. words sear into my flesh like burning wax. they mark me until i am no longer my own.

logograms sputter around, bouncing off the walls in my head, stuck there for eternity because i can’t say them properly. my tongue turns inward and i swallow it down into my stomach.

i bleed words from imaginary ulcers and i spread my arms out crooked to represent letters of the alphabet that i can’t pronounce. i’ve ripped my vocal chords through my throat  leaving a gaping whole so the words might fly out. but they just bite back and i spills letters like crimson down my skin.

i am no writer. syllables and rhyme possess me, used me to spill themselves over the pavement and onto any ground to form paragraphs.

anhedonia

written circa 2012.
anhedonia: (n) the inability to feel pleasure.

a river of blood rains out of my pours.
crimson and burnt red darkens my insides
but still my epidermis possesses a ghostly
white glow.

i don’t know where i am going or how i got
here. i remember listening to this one song
on repeat until it fizzled out and i stopped.
the signs are garbled like scribble marks i made
when i was little and called them art.

someone whispered to me that this is a recession
but all i heard was “this is recess” and i haven’t
stopped crying since… because recess hasn’t
existed since i could still count the moments
as they happened and not as where the rivers
turned to oceans of burgundy and red on my skin.