And the world raged around me
turned everything I knew into spray,
stung my face.
Howled into the wind howling back

But Jesus never came for me

Held up no hand to stop this storm so I held
Myself

Rocked and cried
and rocked
and cried

Held myself to the promise of sunrises uncertain
Gathered the wreckage of my being
and kept going

But Jesus never came for me

I cannot yet
Convince my tongue to say
What is so clearly written in my eyes.
Fingers have traced it on your body.
Arms have draped it over your tired shoulders.
Heart has sang it as you laid your weary head on my chest

But...

I know that is not enough. You hunger
To hear my lips say those words back to you and I
Am starving you.

Don't you dare
Call yourself my potter
When it was your hands
Feet
Words
Presence in my life
That caused the fractures in my being that

I

Had to fill with gold.

He loved me like he loved the rain.
Reveled in the
idea of me,
ran from my reality.
Begged for my monsoons
to replenish barren lands -
starving for affection.
So I gathered myself up -
pulled intimacy from the
depths of my seas.
Let it billow in my chest until,
too heavy for me to bear,
I poured myself empty.

But he ran.
Hid behind double-paned, shatterproof
glassy eyes.
I poured and raged and begged
for him to let me in.
But he stayed
safe in his silence until
my storm had passed
and I was left dripping -
pleading hands and
tear stained kisses beaded up
and rolled off his facade -
collecting in puddles at his feet.

My mother spelled my name with a storm -
made the first syllable
lightning
second syllable of
wind and rain
third syllable of
thunder's distant roar.

My mother made my name tectonic.
Each syllable cacophonous -
the subsequent more than the former -
slamming continental tongues
into the mantles of teeth.

My mother made my name as immutable as the laws of gravity -
catches hold of your ear
and refuses to let go
unless acted on by an
equal
and opposite force.

My mother spelled my name with power -
bound it to the core of my being
with love -
marched me into the World and
with all the power left in her
declared,
"This is my son in whom I am well pleased".

I held onto every word -
Every "*******"
Every "worthless"
Every "stupid"
Every "I love you" -
And hung them in the rafters
of my memories -
next to love spoiled I could
never give you - to dry.
Left them to roast
in the corners of my heart.
Rinsed them with my
tears and let the aroma of grief
swirl around my being.

I held onto every word -
Every "*******"
Every "worthless"
Every "stupid"
Every "I love you" -
So the next time we met
I could offer you a cup of my grief.
Steep your bitter words in
my own tears
watch as your words
soured on your tongue
and you struggled to swallow
so you could breathe again.

But I switched cups.
Gave you honey and lavender
and drank every word -
Every "*******"
Every "worthless"
Every "stupid"
Every "I love you" -
and soothed my own soul.