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.

My patience was a yellow, rusted truck
Running low on fuel and puffing a cloud
Of smoke behind it as it rattled down
The road.

My frustration was the click click click
Of my blinker, and the flashing light
Reminding me to change my oil.

I drove circles around this town,
Following a route I had mapped out
In my head--but I failed to see how
It only enforced the anxiety of
My heart, mirrored in the clattering

Of my truck’s engine.

I fell behind in my navigating,
Missing lights as ambulances rushed
Past, disrupting the rigid routine
I liked because of its familiarity.

One day, as I reached for the handle
Of the failing trajectory of my life, yellow
Yet sad in the morning light, a man
Brighter than any paint color, walked
Up to me and extended his hand.

“This is not the plan I have for you.”
He said. “Come to me, for I will
Give you rest.”

It was too good to be true—
How could I trust a man promising
The world?

Yet, that is where I was wrong.
He was not offering the world,
But eternal life and love in the
Wholeness of His image.

I let my arm drop to my side,
Away from the smoking lump
Of my car, and felt the earnestness
Of His expression.

Forgetting the yellow frame beside me,
I took His hand, and began to walk,
The swaying of the leaves suddenly
Peaceful, and the rushing of the cars
Humming gracefully.

Everything that was a source of anxiety,
Faded into the background, and I felt only
The point of contact between me
And my Savior.

The chains cinched tighter
Around my wrists.
I felt them dig into my ankles,
And my blood grow hot
In my throat.
But my mind was clear—
Sinking deeply into a soft,
Pastel embrace.
I was in my faith.
Jesus held me, his promises
Forming a warm wall
Around my soul.
I let go of the outward pain,
Knowing no one
Could touch me here.

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 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.