4/13/16

11:12 pm

Father,

I feel you:

your serenity

your grace

your bliss.

I feel it all, it's flooding around me as an overflowing river in mid-April.

Your serenity surrounding, drowning me.

The swift grace to stay afloat- to swim

and the blessing big enough to feel it.

I feel your hand over me as it storms in the sky and your hand beneath me as I travel the dusty roads of my home.

I hear you profess your love, loud enough to hear over the many hardships I send booming through speakers and into my own brain.

I thank you often,

not enough but daily nonetheless and throughout and in my sleep even,

but father,

I cannot speak. 

I cannot close my eyes in worship for fear of meeting yours.

But please- do not be stricken by this. 

I can no longer bare my own reflection. 

Patched skin and bowed lips in a shattered mirror.

But father how do I?

I cannot speak out to you.

I cannot bring myself to my knees and cry out for your forgiveness.

I have beaten and berated myself into oblivion begging my own mind to stop.

For it goes without a doubt that my knees are beyond worn but my praisal vocal chords not yet torn.

Not touched.

Not a rip.

I cannot scream, cry or even speak out for your love.

Is it that I cannot handle your love, to handle having someone there for me even when I am angry at my self? 

Or is it that I cannot bring myself to see my own reflection- not broken- in your eyes?

To look at the purest, most correct, version of me. 

Who you want me to be pouring out of your eyes.

Out of you.

Oh father-

My salvation-

your eternally graceful hands wove together a defect.

A monster-

out to destroy herself.

Father, I cannot be the me that your hearts yearns for.

I make too many mistakes and often show little repentance. 

You see, I can no longer speak 

and that only leads me to fear the day

that I can no longer see.