I tell myself
it would be to not feel any sting.
What sweet relief it would be
to live a life untethered from vulnerability,
to detach enough to see beauty from afar
but never close enough to feel
the loss of a bloom dying,
the ache of a promise broken,
the fear of death stealing unreveled days;
the crush of a life ground into the pavement.
I practiced this for awhile.
It’s easier than you think to turn your heart into a callous.
“I’m fine,” slips off the tongue so smoothly,
building a simple, strong wall
against anyone close enough to see your bruises.
I could stay like this for years,
But I didn’t count on spring.
I forgot how poetry tumbles me.
I misjudged friends who push past my lies.
I underestimated a God who created me
as his beautiful, breakable thing,
formed to show his love embodied.
As much as I try to turn to stone,
I’ll always go back to my purpose.
My DNA codes for “soft,”
a body destined to feel,
that cannot stop caring about everything
that will be ripped by every shard
of broken heart I brush against.
I am undaunted because I have seen how I can heal,
and I can’t hold back what is written in my veins:
a creature made by a God who weeps and bleeds for her
will never hide from pain.
Cover photo by Brandi Redd.
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