When I describe you to a stranger,
I do not mention your flawless makeup

Instead I think of your eyes, the window to your soul.
I describe the love that flows through soft hazel gaze that only a mother can produce

When I describe you to a stranger,
I do not mention your perfectly done hair

Instead I see you reading a novel on a hot summer day,
As if it were your true reality in that moment.
I see the power that literature holds

I describe your mesmerizing voice repeating the lines of Eloise in Paris to me,
I mention the soothing way in which you read the Velveteen Rabbit,
And I credit you for making me fall in love with words and the way they can make people feel.

When I describe you to a stranger,
I do not mention your schooling history

Instead I picture you and I see a symphony around your soul that courses cannot teach
I see Mozart's Sonata No.11 and Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos
I see Monet’s Water Lilies, Veronese's Wedding at Cana and Michelangelo’s David

I describe the joy in your eyes when we saw the Sistine Chapel and the Champs-Élysées
I describe the vast knowledge and art that makes up your personal mosaic.

When I describe you to a stranger,
I do not mention your professional accomplishments.

Instead I mention your ability to hold someone and make them feel loved
I picture the times you embraced me while I silently sobbed over circumstances that you tried to protect me from.
I picture the words that you gave me at just the right times
I see the comfortable silence you provided when I couldn't bear to hear words through the pain.

When I describe you to a stranger,
I do not mention your clothing or the way you dress

Instead I mention the way you clothe yourself in humility before God
I see the verses that you have sown into my heart since I was young
I speak of the way you clothe yourself with the armor of God
I remember the scriptures that you so carefully knitted on my heart

When I describe you to a stranger,

I describe you as
A woman after God’s own heart.
A woman who understands that beauty is vain but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised,
A woman who teaches wisdom and kindness and serves with joy,
A mother who clothes herself in strength and dignity and laughs without fear of the future,
A mother who encapsulates the love of Christ here on Earth.
I describe you as everything that I hope to become.

I want to write about you
Not because I miss you or because I still want you.
I want to write about you so that I can stop having nightmares about you. I pray for the day that I wake up in the morning from a restful sleep of beautiful dreams in which you don’t appear. Because I’m too old to still have nightmares.

I want to write about you so that I stop seeing you in my memories as someone who loved me because you did not.
I have to write about you and all of the hell that I went through to be with you so that I can pretend as though I am healed from it.

The truth is, it has been 2 years since I last was emotionally drained and tied to you.
It has been approximately 730 days since I was associated with you.
And you would think that would be long enough to rid your scent off of me.
It doesn’t matter how much I’ve forgiven you for what you put me through, or how many times I’ve written letters I’ll never send.
I still cannot escape the words you told me when I was so young and impressionable.

I write about you so that I can come to terms with what you made me endure.
I write about you so that the next time I think of you in any remotely positive light, I’ll remember that your favorite thing to do was tell me you didn’t want me. I’ll remember if I write about you that you pressed skin against skin with my close friend and then made me question my love for you after the truth was uncovered.

If I write about you,
I remember the monster you really are
Because I’m tired of seeing the best in people.

I often think.
I wrote that first line and almost left it as a poem by itself because those three words are a nice summarization of what I wish I could say when someone asks me “How are you”

See the phrase, “I often think” pretty much describes my mood no matter the day, time, age or circumstance that I might be going through.
I think about everything, all of the time.
In fact there hasn’t been a moment since I was born when I wasn’t thinking about something

When someone asks me how I am doing, I long to reply with “i often think”
Because replying with “better than I deserve” or “well I’m just living the dream” has never felt right to me.
Every single time I have been asked the basic question of how are you. It physically pains me to say, “good, and how about yourself”
And I shorten my answer to the acceptable one, because what I really want to say at that moment would take up too much time from the sweet smiling lady who asks me that at the drive through because she asks the question out of habit.

When I am asked “How are you” I desperately wish I could respond with, “I often think.”
Because there is no doubt in my mind that the people I pass by every day who do not know me,
Often think.
And it is such a shame that we do not answer that question with what we are often thinking about.

there is a beautifully broken soul that cries in agony
it aches while it is held, but it longs to be cradled as well
it searches for meaning while destroying its future
it asks for help but takes none when it is offered for fear of being vulnerable