Don’t ask questions
For to receive an answer means
A depletion of ignorance.
And isn’t not knowing sweet
to the mind?
But our bliss = your hell.
The desire for our eyes to divert
Your embarrassment only intensifies
Your frustration; metabolizes into loneliness.
A shame untold of anger only allowed
To lash out against its own flesh.
Loathing lines lay across your limbs
Like sticks stacked by a child.
A deep red remnant of pain
Reveals hidden suffering.
Unspoken out of fear of damnation,
You are haunted by the thought
That “empathy” birthed only in the damage
Cleaved into skin;
Your heart’s laceration will repel others
Wanting to know you, wanting to love you.
With three nails, I called out for you
By name - I saw your face.
The dormant splendor in your soul
Survives, pulsating through your veins, escalating.
May I resuscitate your hope?
What time cannot heal, I want to mend.
Deny the power of nightmares that wake you,
Restore your sleep to its former,
Innocent, glory.
Will you let Me bear your scars?
It breaks My heart to see your spirit
Grovel on the ground, wallow from venomous lies.
With lashes that mark thirty-nine
I have never let you go;
My blood flows, washing your wounds,
Carrying your stripes and tears.
I wish you could see what I see:
You are more precious than the greatest karat,
My dear. An exciting wonder even the Holiest of Holies
Impatient to invite.
Climb into My arms; rest in My comfort.
The shadow of your past
Can’t haunt you anymore.
I have loved you since the blueprint of your being
Crossed My mind. Admittedly, I was smitten.
I had borne your scars as I exhaled
New life into you: My wonderful, perfect
creation.
My body was wrenched, that you might recognize
Your ceaseless beauty.
My kingly position disowned momentarily
That you may repudiate your wretchedness.
I paid the ultimate cost,
Uprooted the blame you adopted, that you can
Inherit My bottomless, overflowing, blessing:
You are My beloved, in whom I always
delight.
I wrote this poem a year ago, after I encountered a student on more than one occasion while subbing. She was in high school, blonde hair painted a light blue at the tips, and underneath her sleeves, lines revealed that she's had a past of cutting. I could see more lines peeking through her holey jeans. I wonder what kind of hell she's been through, to do harm to herself. I wrote this poem, as a means of what I wish I could say to her, if I had the chance. I wished so much that I could tell her God loves her, adores her; that she no longer has to hurt, because through Jesus, she can be healed.
One year later, I'm rereading this poem, something I wrote for someone whom I no longer remember their name, and realizing that I need the words for myself. Poetry is funny like that - written for one purpose, and later is translated into another purpose for another person. I just didn't figure on that "other person" being me. The author needing her own words to beg for help. Who would've thunk? Actually, I thought I was over this whole self-condemnation thing back when I finished college. But with new chapters in life come new challenges, and depending on how the day ends, one either feels like a success or a failure.
There has been a pain inside me growing, condemning my identity as a person. Some scars can be plainly viewed. Like my former student, they peer through fabric with the movement of a limb. However, many scars have to be understood to be seen. And the scars that I have hidden are such. I used to look in the mirror and lash out against my own reflection. For what I saw physically; what I saw emotionally; spiritually. I would despise what I saw. I would curse myself,
forgetting what beauty I had within me, because the faults and
imperfections I believed I had seemed to be a greater determinant of who
I am as an individual. When I looked in that mirror, I found some reason where I was lacking, compared to my friends and family, and wondered why on earth was I the way I am. There were moments I decided to carry the weight of the world
on my shoulders and try to solve all of its problems...and find myself
utterly lacking. And therefore, utterly a failure.
Noun; not just a
verb. Identity; not just an action.
Never mind the playful heart; the life-filled laughter; the never-ending song. Never mind the sun-kissed hair and freckles that splatter against my cheeks. Never mind the memory captured through film, or the ability to communicate through pen, nor the difference I have been able to make with kids. Never mind that I am God's child and fashioned in His image...
A year ago, I wrote this poem as a prayer for a teenager to realize who she truly is, and who she is meant to be. I wrote it initially, to be a message for what Christ's redemption does for the wounds to peoples' hearts. And yet, I am in need of this prayer. I thought I beaten this self-hatred. Which is why its
presence now is so concerning to my soul. Why is it coming back? Of course, I KNOW who I am
in Christ, and how I am a daughter of God. So, why is it still being
thrown in my face? Nonetheless, there have been secret wounds I did not uttered, because I feared not only the condemnation I brought upon myself, but anxious if others would share the same sentiment. The result was a rotting spirit, and a forgotten value.
I have since removed the plank from my own eyes, and revealed to my family the hurt I have dealt with. And there is healing in knowing that they have stood beside me, prayed with me, and are not willing to let me fall down through cracks laced with lies from Satan. Am I perfect? No. But I am remembering who I truly am, laying behind me the things have held me back, and am marching toward what is ahead (Philippians 3:12-14) . No longer do I have to bear my scars. Through Christ, they will fade.
