The writing on the wall
is bold, shouting
out to you, black
upon white, a
deafening whisper behind
your eyeballs, drowning
your thoughts in words
you had left

behind. The writing
on the wall is
exultant, proclaiming
His glory- musical, singing
of his greatness- pleading,
for deliverance from all
that plagues or
may come

to them. You remember when us
became them. This
writing on every wall
grows stronger the further
you look up, for hands
cannot touch the corners
near the ceiling, and tears
have only faded the letters past
the waterline of sobbing

prayers. The intricate writing
on these walls belies
their strength, every one
two meters thick, and you
sit inside these walls and try to listen
to the voices you
have been asked to hear, and
wonder how around so
much strength you
feel so constricted, so helpless.

They tell me it's ok and that
I've been through so much. You, they say,
are a fighter.
You are a survivor.
I break down. And I crack
up and there are days that I don't
get out of bed or leave
my house at all. And you
let me off the hook because I
am fighting. Surviving. Fighters, you say,
need to let their guard down
after all. I **** up again or I
don't follow through or I
hurt someone and you
will always forgive me because I
am a survivor and they
are allowed to. Listen to me I
do not want these second
(and third and tenth) chances. You
use them for yourself. Stop saying
that I do not need to be strong just
because I survived. I know
that I survived. I know
that I am capable of strength so stop
forgiving me.