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One word can change your life.

Tag: truth

A bush on fire doesn’t mean you’ve found God

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Where there is smoke, there is fire, but there is no God.

Listen carefully and you might survive this inferno.

Hold your breath and don’t choke on tears.

No one is here to hear you.

You don’t recognise the shape of your skin.

Extinguish your incense; smother your flames. Burning doesn’t mean power; a bush on fire doesn’t mean you’ve found God. A fire cannot burn in the dark; a fire cannot burn without air. Fire is light; it fights the dark. They can’t exist together. The flames consume the dark. This light. This cancer. This burning lung. Tarred ventricle. Gasp. This is your prayer. You are ablaze. Perhaps God is here after all.

Here between the walls as the sea begins to break. God’s subject raised a rod to make a path – part the mass – split the body of water… split the body of… split the body… Split the body. Break the body with a rod. Beat it until it is two. Two parts; too broken. Now walk through. Escape. Slaves flee! Be free. Beat, beat, be free. Beat, beat, be free. You can’t beat God into me.

He might be here, but he is not with me.

Playing devil’s advocate or devil playing in the desert. Feed yourself with these rocks. Bow to me. Leap from this temple and trust them to catch you with their rituals and self-righteousness. Do not tempt me. Get behind me. I will starve. My body is your bread. My blood is your wine. Drink. Have your fill from these dry bones. It is for you. This is what you do. Depart, devil. Depart, demons. Depart. Apart. Restart.

In the beginning, God. Amen. So be it. The land and sea and sky and dark that was night and my mind. And light as day and dreams and hope. 66 books and we still cannot live in peace.

My tears are the water. I pour them like wine. This time they are worth more than gold. I’ve sold my body too many times to earn my worth from the hands that hold me. I have let myself go too many times, like pearl before swine. My body is not for them to cast lots and divide between men, women, fools, thieves, ghosts, lovers. My clothes will remain even after blood has been spilled, the stone rolled away.

Where are you now? The tomb is empty. The womb is empty. Virgin Mary. Quite contrary. Weighed and measured. Found wanting. Not enough. Not big enough. Not strong enough. I am David. More than a book. More than five stones to slay the monster. More than conquerors. Conquered. Captured. Christ.

You don’t recognise the shape of your skin. So I mark it and hope it’ll be come more familiar. I call courage. I call the present. I call my body mine and it is so.

 

 

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I will not be beautiful for someone else

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I am tired. I am broken violets in a vase that hasn’t had water for days. I am cut at the base of a very long stem – growing bent under the weight of others’ sins carried on the wind. How do you grow up when you cannot see the sun? Cannot feel the heat on your leaves? No warmth in the day? No moon at night?

I die. My roots growing further into the earth trying to bury my alive. When I am hiding perhaps I’ll survive. Only dirt is seen by the naked eye, but I…

I grow silently beneath the soil. I wrap all my limbs around rocks that told me I couldn’t and hold them so tightly. They anchor me. I tell them my secrets hoping my stories will bounce back with an echo of truth I don’t already know. I am only a seed below.

Scattered. Like dust. Shattered. Like someone just put me here and expected me to be something beautiful. Something for show. A feature in a building they call home.

It’s a house made of aging bones and hollow noises and records that play on too-loud speakers because why fix a thing that isn’t completely broken? Yet. It’s only a little out of shape. The music is still in time. In time.

In time. My heart no longer beats in time to the right rhythm. Broken violets in a thirsty vase asking for questions to be asked. Why keep them if they’re dead? What if they rot?

I’m not saying they’re entirely ineffectual – I’m a conversation starter at least. What will they speak about with a flowerless mantlepiece? Will they even miss me?

Not planted or picked for display. Just somewhere. A seed. Growing my own way and looking for the light.

Do not go gentle into those empty lies

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Please stop coming to me in my dreams. Please stop curling up defenseless with me while I’m asleep. Please stop filling me with your memories. Please. I can still feel you. Move. Please.

I’ve moved forward; I’ve moved on. I’ve moved so you wouldn’t find me standing still. I have spent all this time being unfrozen, melted to stay away from you. Running. Running water. Free flow. Free. Free. You freeze me. Hard.

I have found value in soft, smooth strength. Slow. Not stuck fast. Slow down, baby, and find yourself. Find your fears in your own night’s sleep. Befriend them – know them and you will know yourself.

Dreams rest between terror’s teeth. Get up close. Tremble with its breath on your neck. Stand up straight. Hold your head high. Do not go gentle into the lies you’ve become comfortable telling yourself. You are done with these, love.

There is nothing left for you in those lies – there is no you left in those lies. Life. The simplest adjustment and you’ll come into so much… more… without me. And that is what is best.

You belong to you. I belong to myself and my own dreams and sleep and peace, and you do not need me. It’s okay.

For the first time I don’t feel guilty for you walking away. I’ve drowned my doubts in those dreams. I am enough without your memories.

I wish you well. Now sleep.

Dreams and beasts burning hotter than the stars

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She is alone. This has been her fear all along. It is dusk on an open road and mountains and unmoving turbines and the moon.

There are more miles between here and there than she cares to admit. She won’t admit anything. The abandonment. The inadequacy. The wedding that shouldn’t have been. The affair. The family. The abuse. The divorce. The abandonment. The abandonment. The child in her arms that isn’t hers.

There are many beasts that walk these streets – bigger and burning hotter than the stars. The scars on her hands show how busy broken messy busy broken she has kept herself. She has kept herself. To herself. Toward herself. Away from herself. Abandonment. Tired. So tired.

She is alone. Alive but alone and what is living when you can’t hear another heart beating?