I set out to answer the question
Of how much weight simple words
Could hold—could they crush
Shoulders, evicerate hearts like
A falling anvil? Or were they more
Like acid rain, almost soft and gentle,
Unseeming until they sting more
Than water? There is always so much
Weight on my chest, and I suppose
It must be from the countless, heavy

Words left unsaid; but I don’t want
To be the hands to heave an anvil
On some unsuspecting bystander’s

Head--or the clouds sprinkling
Deadly tears onto unblemished skin. 

How much weight can words hold?
But I think the question is more
Accurately: how much weight
Are we willing to transfer to others?

I had lost my voice—

Was it from screaming,

Or staying silent?

He cries with us

Even when He

Knows our tears

Are unnecessary.

There are hands against my temples,
Pressing, squeezing, building tension
Like a band slowly constricting
Around my head, over my eyelids.
I squint and continue my day,
Knowing my knuckles won’t be able

To massage the aching away--
Even as I force myself to focus
And ignore the whiplash of a knife
Slashing through my mind—
I am only as present as the willpower
I possess, despite my pain.

I watch my fingers curl up
As if they do not know
How to lay flat, relaxed.
I am a strung bow,
Pulled back and taut,
Wincing at the arrow
I constantly hold—
When can I let go? 

When will my stare
Stop swerving from
The target? Nothing
Less than the bullseye
Will do, but exhaustion
Tears at me, causing
My hands to warble
Farther and farther
From what I intend

To reach--the goal
I cannot see myself
Achieving anymore.

A screeching train
reminiscent of an owl
And a screaming child
strands of experiences
All tangled together

I would sit with the stubbornness of a child
Dragging down my face, a question on my lips,
“Who was Jesus? How did he save us?”

I only received scoffs in return,
Disbelief as busy adults said “What did he do?
Be serious.”
They never understood that I was.

Unaware of His presence and His love,
I curled into myself, wondering why I always
Failed at satisfying the standard I had
Carefully constructed in my head—
It turned out, I was only waiting
For God's perfect timing.

It was slow--a sluggish trial
Of Him holding out his hand, and mine
Hovering tentatively, not fully convinced.
But He spoke through those around me,
He filled the emptiness I had walked around with
Like a book with blank pages, chapters filled in
At the binding. He gave me a community,
Something that was completely unfamiliar
And alien considering the isolation I was so
Accustomed with. Gradually, I turned to face Him.
I talked to Him under rain-soaked trees and rooms
Infused with the fear of darkness, and He offered
The resolute peace of His love and guidance—

I will never forget the day of extended worship,
One voice flowing through the music, settling
Itself in my heart as I stood alcoved in a hallway,
A borrowed guitar clutched close & eyes full of tears
I was suddenly becoming unafraid of. That anxiety,
That defining phobia of never being enough,
He began to heal as I took His hand and let Him
Give me the strength to persevere through
Something
 I didn’t believe myself capable of.

In that moment, leading up to it, and even now,
When I know there is so much left for Him
To teach me, I feel the unburdening weight
Of his purpose for me—His sovereignty
Over the life I tried to control, year
After year, with my own understanding.

I will never know everything, but I finally

Comprehend what Jesus did for me--
And that knowledge continues
To motivate everything I am,
A daughter of God, into pursuing
An eternal relationship with Him,
Unhindered by my self-righteousness
And fear of failing to fulfill his plan.

Jesus truly is Everything.

She spoke as if she wasn’t sure
If the words formed by her lips
Were really hers—only uncertainties,
Fairies flitting convoluted ideas
Through her mind’s eye.
Was it too much to say?
Did she truly want to give all
The pieces of herself away? 

It was too much. . .
They would not understand. . .
Dark lashes framing tired eyes,
Life was harder than she thought.
What if she wasn’t the unwavering light
She was supposed to be?
So many insecurities,
Yet none so powerful
As the red-limned thought
That Jesus would not know her,
And she would fall into the pits--
Welcome only to darkness
And the cold, cold smiles
Of the Enemies who succeeded.

A fire burns,
yet it is still
pleasureable?
Mind games,
and supple words,
He makes me
feel wanted.
But what part
of me
is he
after?

Gratified storm clouds,
Rain that never stops,
Slowing its downpour—
Did all of those tears
Travel down the drains,
Through the aquaducts,
To the Earth’s core?

Has that become the
Epicenter of our world:
The Sky's Sorrow?

i lived in somnambulism,
Going through the motions,
Finding myself curled
ontop of the refrigerator,
Working surrounded
by walls of grey tears,
Seeing faces only as
muffled blurs of color,
Pinching my arm,
Banging on doors,
none of which worked.
I was awake only in my fear
of living the rest of my life
Submerged in the bleary
Tape of a damaged
camera roll.

I said sorry in my mind.

I reconstructed all of it--
Our past conversations,
The exchange made
Merely minutes ago—
I meant none of it,
What I really meant was. . .
. . .I know . . . Because. . .

Analogging a new answer
In my head, convincing myself
That I had said it all along—
Why do you still act
As if I did wrong? 


Or, perhaps, you brushed it off.
It was not strange to you.
It did not even stick out--
Because you couldn’t see 

All the things I could have said
And wished that I had.

I agonize over the words
That never leave my mouth,
Planning the past meticulously
Until it numbs the weight
That hangs over my chest
From the fumbled encounter
I remember so vividly.

I said sorry in my head,
Were my lips saying
Something different?
I said sorry in my mind.
But even then,
nothing is right,
nor organized,
did I even say sorry?
Or was it a fractured thought,
Underneath the pile,
Grown so high,
Of admonitions and guilt,
Screaming, yet never
Reaching the light?

It had been years;
Yet I still felt like
The kid sitting
At a small, silent
Lemonade stand,
Watching the cars
Pass by and the
Ice melt, clinking
Together in the
Celebratory ‘cheers’
I imagined people
Said as they drove
By, smiling and
Laughing at my
Continued failure.

We are a stained glass sphere—
Every individual a different color
For Him to shine His light through,
Different tints in intricate patterns
Revolving around one another and
Overlaying the beauty and life He
Gave us to make brand new shades.  
But some panes are ***** and nearly
Opague, blocking the gentle light
Of grace he sends to meet our eyes.
His righteousness is blinding, and
Sometimes we find it easier to let
Gunk build up to block it out, rather
Than face the spotlight on the the
Wrongs we have done—but that
Only leaves the glass mosiac of His
Creation distorted and incomplete,
His heart aching as his Son weeps.
We can spend every moment at
Our colored panes, scrubbing, &
Polishing until our arms are weak,
But only salvation will restore His
Stained glass children to His glory.

There is nothing keeping me here—
Paper aeroplanes encircle my head,
Boarding my thoughts to faraway places,
And I pace faster and faster, seeking purpose
In the dull trees without the love of life—
Even the greenery wilts under the pressure
Of the city—all we can do is keep unremittingly
Busy, words zero degrees, and shoulders cold.
A smile is only a pad of butter, sweet and sickly,
Disguising the anxious want of another lost soul.
I spin in place, waiting for the sky to change,
And give peace under the umberous dark,
But even in the dredges of midnight, 

The sky is a sluggish fog of pollution,
And my lungs shudder from the thought
Of the poison not only inhaled, but filling our
Young minds, brimming with manipulated
Falsity—again the aeroplanes, they want
To take me away, despite the knowledge
That nowhere is free of its problems. 

There is nothing keeping me here,
But sometimes clarity comes
from staying still.