She was the villain.
She could feel it
In her heart—
Yet there was nothing,
Not a “sorry”
That could salvage
What she had done.
We are all heroes
And villains in
One and another’s
Lives—
but she still wished
she could be
     only the light

Blanketed by chimney sweeps
And coal dust the color
Of wilted childhood innocence,
I sat before the fireplace,
Crisscrossed, wondering
If my tears were enough
To put out the burgeoning flames
And clean the filth on my skin.
Yet, I knew, only One’s blood
Could wash it away

I saw the reflection in the glass—

The shape of cheekbones
And straight, drooping lashes--
Lips that parted in awe
As they saw the face that
No longer belonged to me—
Only God’s creation.

A sanctum of denial,
Concealing my faults--
A cushion of half-truths;
How many layers have
Amassed over the darkness
Underneath?
Countless years of internalizing,
Clasping the faults close,
Hands like golem and his ring
In my chest, shaking with
The anxiety I knew I shouldn’t
Keep—but cherished anyway,
Secret, mine, a way for me
To feel in control.
How long will I delay
The inevitable breakdown

That comes with realizing
All my most incarcerated,
Ebony-black thoughts
And parts of myself
Are with Him, and He
Only loves me
no matter
how dark
they are.

I fumbled as I fell--
I waited for the ground,
And frowned
When it did not come.
I had failed so miserably
Yet, it frightened me
To know that I could
Fall still more egregiously--
A desperation seized me
To meet the bedrock
And stand on my own

Two feet.

My eyes were deep holes,
Boring into him,
Mouth sluggish as it
Searched for the words;
But they were malformed,
They were broken limbs,
Unable to be righted
So, I pulled out a pen
And placed the paper
in his hands. Read this.

I spoke slow, measured
Because written word
Was yet to fail me
Compared to the treachery
Of my weighted tongue

That’s not what I meant,
How come erasers
don’t offer recompense?
Should’ve used a pencil, not a pen,
As I tried to make sense
of the contents of my head--
Fumbling with my hand,
Trying to use my left,
To craft an illegible land
I am bound to forget.

Lord, I am a mime, pounding
On the invisible walls of my
Own life, suffocating in a box
I didn’t know surrounded me—
Where is the key? Is there a
Loose brick, a fissure in the
Dam? The silence is deafening,
And water begins to pool at
My feet, slowly rising—I call
For help, but my words are
Warbled, incoherent and lost
As they richoet back to me.
The mortar scrapes my fists,
Making the air ******, and I
Call out to you, Lord; I ask
For you to be my home, my
Foundation, not this craggly
Prison I incased myself in—
So many years of building
The walls of distrust as the
Water of anxiety mills about
Me—Lord, let me breathe, fill
My lungs with your spirit and
The love I have been avoiding.

I am drying paint.

I sit back and watch

Myself grow less glossy,

More dull and emotionless.

I am Loved,
a truth that sometimes hurts,
I am Scared
something I loathe to admit
And I am Yours,
a fact that gives me strength
To say all these things

Rolled tight with insecurities,
A coat to protect me from the cold.
Knowledge deflects hurt.
I hate, and I hate, and I hate--
So your hatred can never pierce
The enmity I have already created.
I take care of them like animals,
Plants, fueling the dislike,
Until compliments hurt me more
Than any insult ever did.

We climb up these steps,
on a constant spiral staircase,
Scampering along the branches
of this gnarled tree—
How many times,
have I fallen
And scraped my knee
along the way?
Why do i persist
On climbing, climbing,
climbing?

They were tears of knowledge,
Dripping to my chin
And sinking into my clothes
Like his words.
The railcar sped past fields
Of emotions—
The details blurring together
As I processed.
My hands were folded in my
Lap, unmoving.
I searched for surprise among
The wildflowers,
But all I saw was the clarity
Of a conversation.
My heart was heavy, like a
Full rain trough
The day after a heavy storm,
And I felt the truth
In all of the disappointment.

Staring at this paper, 

I can barely breathe--
The prose shows too much of me.
Hiding behind these leaves of ink,
Is a person who barely speaks
Except through crumpled sheets
Of muffled lines, weak at the knees.
Where does my cursive lead?
To an illegible land of pain and grief?

Fields in Albany
May seem wrong
And inconcrete--
but so are my thoughts,
my sugared reality
With rows and rows
of half-bloomed daisies--
Some flicker out of reach
But with so many,
how can my eyes but deceive me?

Distraction from truth—
I waited in bird calls,
Hoarding sensitivity.
Did I respond,
Or only become glass,
Fragile and hidden,
Afraid to step outside
For fear of breaking?

How do you know when someone
Is meant to be in your life?
Is it a feeling, an ever-present,
glowing “yes,” that sings?
Or is it a subtle voice,
One barely daring to speak,
noting how gentle he stands,
how your posture lightens
When he enters the room?
Is it the kindness of his hands,
or the intentionality of his words?
His voice is rolling hills,
quiet and genuine,
But loud and boisterous
When he needs to be.
A serene peace,
a deep understanding
Of where his feet should be
Standing and direct,
yet never raised,
Or sitting and patient,
waiting for another soul
to sit beside him and ask:
“So who’s this Jesus?”
I want to be that person.
but is that seat filled?

Am I supposed to sit
in a different row entirely?
Lord, what is this wall,
this barrier, blocking me
From connecting?

it was a sweet downpour,
sprinkling on her nose
Like freckles. 


there was no one to watch,
no one to please,

Only Jesus.

the flowers lollygagged
and her skirt swished,
She laughed.

the sound flooded the wind,
her palms facing up,
Nose crinkled.

she was a little girl again,
yellow wellingtons in puddles,
Without a shadow.

it was a sweet downpour,
she spun and spun,
In nostalgia.

I am forever distant--
Like pollen once it
has left on the wind,
Isolated in a home
With little windows
and temporal silence.
I see no fault
in being vulnerable
And open, anymore--
But these guarders,
still cover my words.

The sheen of ice
On a frozen lake,
So much underneath,
yet never shown--
Because no feet
Dare to walk on it,
Or come close enough
to break its surface.

Dresses pushing prams,
The evidence of life
And its rotation.
Girls showing their insecurity
On exposed skin,
Walking the path
Towards the world’s

Low-hanging validation.

Outside of the motion,
Eyes an X-ray to the soul,
I watched the hearts
On the left side of their bodies
Move up and down,
With every breath, every step,
And I thought aloud.
Where would my words go
If no one ever heard them?

Clouds coming in,
Soft and pink,
Like the curtains in a nursery
For a baby who never came.
Did she still hear the lies
In her head,
Even as an infant?

There was a part of me
That did not want to know.
There was another that
Imagined the mother,
Full of rocks at a shoreline,
Her body a mesh enclosure,
Weighed down as the waves
Of grief washed over her,
Again and again,
Until she was only the sand
People collected on vacations.

I’ve gotten carried away,
But I know, somewhere,
A girl looks at these clouds,
And sees her sorrow
Held in God’s hands of sunset,
Coddling the child in softness,
Before, through, and after the rain.

a jar of pennies,
sloshing around
and clinking—
it is poor
and rusting—
My mind, that is.

Steeped in the floodgates of Heaven,
Droplets of joy, of forgotten memories,
Rain down, drenching, all-consuming—
Head tipped back, arms outstretched,
Surrounded by the crash of heartache.
Perfection mingling with humanity, tears
Beating pleas of grace and compassion
Into the stained minds on the sidewalk.

Rightness travels in a bus,
Holding a yellow pole,
Waiting for its stop.
The scenery speeds by,
My interiority bleeding open,
  yet never slowing,
      forever lost.
On the rail tracks of my God,
I blink, zoom out my gaze,
And see all of the souls,
Provided and beautiful,
Sitting patiently beside me—
A gift to grow in Spirit
Before I’m ready for the station
   impatiently awaited,
        sitting in dusk.

It was a careless murmur,
Spoken on a belated night,
Settling itself in the air
As they spoke on and on.
The words meant nothing
To them.
“Grandma passed away,
Oh yeah. . .”
“Because I love you,
But see. . .”
“Remember your aunt?
She died.”
They were soft words,
Meant to be recieved
Lightly, on silent hands—
But they were surrounded
By so many others, all
Tangled around, until
They didn’t feel real

Anymore.

The lanterns flickered out
One by one.
With every step down the lane,
I left behind
All the darkness I had let light
Up my life.

[Impatience. Uncertainty.
How do you know when it's done drying?]

I could smell the asphalt
As the road was paved,
A perfect rendition
Of all I hoped to achieve.
Did I step too early,
Making indents,
That could not be removed?
Did I stand by, as a storm
Passed through, and
Knocked over trees
Onto the drying ground?
Or was I the storm,
Taking chainsaws
To the cypress trunks,
Muddying the path
I had anxiously anticipated?
And was it that very nervousness
That made me finish
Before I had even started?

I imagined that once I was surrounded
By hills of green felt and descending
Fog, that I would find the words
Settle on my tongue—
My hand would feel sure,
Clenched around a pencil,
And soft atop keys--
But I also knew, that I might
Just sit there, framed by the misted
Windows, limned in condensation,
And stare at the words that would not form.

His smile broke apart his face, after the years.
There was a slowness to the way he moved,
An energy that slowly waned--
Even when he reassured all he was alight,
His flames appeared to have died out--
Yet, none saw this, until his body lay dry
And lifeless in a wooden crate--
The light leaving his skin
And ruining the illusion
That had taken him a lifetime to create.

Blasphemy,
He had a whole page
Of facts about me--
An entire biography
I had written myself
From blabbering.
But when I set down
To write his,
Only a name
Was scrawled in ink--
Kind words? A bright face?
But what did he look like
When the moon only shone
On glass fragments,
And the air turned dark
From the absence of voices?
I saw Jesus in his heart;
He spread his abounding love
By simply talking with those
Who were looked down upon.
But besides his acts from afar,
What do I know that he has told me
In hushed, timbre tones,
Sober with intentionality?
Shame-faced, I think
“Nothing.”