The wounds of my heart are many in number.
They are twice, nay, thrice that of my flesh.
They are deep, hideous wounds that shed tears of red, bright and sparkling.
My heart weeps these tears, these scarlet tears,
In hopes they will finally rid me of my many fears.

My wounds of the flesh were often self inflicted,
A red line here, a red line there,
And show the events of my past.
My struggles and triumphs over the years.
And through the night I shed more tears.
Tears caused by my many, many fears.

The scars of my life shown throughout,
The scars that hide my pain.
The scars of my flesh.
The scars of my heart.
I don’t even know where to start.

I can’t remember the last time I smiled,
The last time I laughed,
The last time I felt loved.
Where have the times gone?
When will my heart be whole again?
Who will save me from this?
The wounds of my flesh.
The wounds of my heart.

It may be uncomfortable at first,
Telling people your story, unrehearsed.
“These sessions are for your own betterment,
Your position is not your permanent settlement.”
A doctor, missionary, author, therapist.
Not a one an optimist.
Yet all of them are activist,
Hoping to bring about a change.
Each of their stories a little strange.

“Doctor, please save my daughter!”
The unruly woman who brought her.
The child I loved like my very own.
Since I first met her with her broken bone.
Now gone on to lands above.
That beautiful child, like a dove.
Since her young passing,
My pain quickly amassing.
Doctors guilt, my immense depression.
“I come here in hopes of regression.”

“Love, you’re safe now.”
My husband wipes the sweat from his brow.
Pulling me far from the danger.
I had been kidnapped by a stranger.
A member of a gang from Cuba.
Taken because of my cries of hallelujah.
This situation that left me paranoid,
It has led to being unemployed.
Kidnapped for being a Christian.
“I know this sounds like a work of fiction.”

“Not this time. Try again.”
I look at them with disdain.
Once again I had been rejected.
I tried so hard to remain collected.
I drive to that terrible place,
And welcome the drinks warm embrace.
My favorite hangout,
Since my family kicked me out.
The burning of the alcohol,
I barely feel it at all.
Another book, another day.
“It will get better soon, they say.”

“You’re not alone.”
I tell them, now that their stories are all known
I give a small smile.
Make their time worthwhile.
Little do they know, I have problems too.
Problems I struggle to get through.
And I can’t escape them no matter where I roam.
These problems I deal with at home.
A husband, with sins to atone.
No family other than him to call my own.
A bad marriage.
A miscarriage.
A battle un-won.
“You’re not the only one.”