I think about how my body makes it impossible for me to love.
The truth is, I am shapeless—like a dropped clay ***,
shattered,
with pieces lodged inside my bones.
He called me a liar, but here I am,
telling another truth:
You cannot plant flowers in something that cannot hold.
I convinced my mind, with all its force,
that the Lord took apart your bones
and sculpted something flawless,
more beautiful than angels,
brighter than the morning sun.
And you are too high.
too pure,
to shine on something so lowly.
The truth is, darling,
You made me feel unworthy.
But I am sure she is a vase full of flowers—
worth more than sunshine that fades in two hours.
And I will crawl back into my dark cave,
convincing myself that light is something I no longer crave.