To the child I could not raise, and instead left behind, I am sorry. This orphaned mindset is not mine and I do not want it anymore. To be seen and not heard is a child’s place but I’ve always been made of this silent, holy glass core. A broken-down cathedral with only the thorns of my transgressions as a souvenir.
I would pray my pain was palpable enough for people to feel it. So that The Holy Spirit would see it, and take it between his two fingers, twist it back and forth like silk seeing if it was prickly enough to be good. Pricey enough to be pain. So that I may be sent to the Father on an emergency bed, a light over my head. I hoped for the surgery of Angel’s, that He would dissect my prayer enough to deem it worthy of recovery. I’d reconcile with He that was that maybe I could be too,
Angel’s pain always looks so pretty.
If I could grab my hands and stab the skin, the sin, the sinew would break and blessings would bloom in the blood of my betrayal. I had hoped that the sticky sweet cracker, and wine juice would suffice. And I’ve never tasted the flavor of salvation but I bet it’s bitter. Hot, and dry on a sand-burned sky. I bet it has splinters in the cracks of its forgiveness and metal in the chemical makeup of God’s grace.
I’d pray that the hurt was heavy enough that God would look down at the atlas of my shoulders and see the burden was heavy and give me strength. Or hold the strings so that I could crack my back and keep going.
Nothing ever comes when we are ready, that is the price He paid for flesh. Stress is the presence of perseverance and some days I wish I had given up. On those days I ask for assistance, addressing the abstinence of my peace. Placing the price of my penance on the shoulders of my Brother, and brokering a deal that wouldn’t leave me in too much debt.
On the days when my hunger does not outweigh my need for self-destruction, I army crawl across the landscapes of my mind, thoughts twisting like barbed wire wound around wounded trees, bleeding the thoughts I dare not speak. Reaching to cut the blue wire, or maybe red, I don’t actually know because I have yet to leave this bed.
On days when my knees feel like the trees that held my ancestors by the throat, heavy and loose, I pretend I am the daisies planted at the roots. I will grow no matter what you hold over my head, be it thread or the dead it does not matter. I will sew this tattered heart to my sleeve and cornrow scripture into my weave. Draw up a map and follow step by step a DIY “Try not to Die” plan.
I have come to learn that when you are stumbling through the dark with your heart and you hit others occasionally, it is okay to let someone else hold yours for you.
He offered a place to rest, no rights, take a left. The palm of a hand to hold me upright, and I don’t know any other way of life than to fight. I have yet to feel whole, the swiss cheese of my soul still needs patching. So I will take the thread from a Dead Man walking and the needle of a nomad. I will stitch scriptures into patches quilting the map to freedom, stuffing the holes with blessings and I will roam this desert sand for 40 days.
The road to rebirth is never straightforward, and sometimes losing is a part of the process. When I finally feel the prickles of flesh returning me to my present I will dismantle the blanket fort, and crawl out from under my covers. And I will make it to the promised land, bathed in light and a fridge in the corner. And I will make me a sandwich. And I will heal.
© Victoria Rollins 2021
Victoria Rollins is a 10th-grade high school student. She is a Kansas City-based writer. She enjoys painting, participating in community activities, and writing poetry. She plans to pursue a career in race studies with an emphasis on psychology.
Victoria you are a light that shines bright. Keep striving for excellence! This is an awesome read! I love you my sweet niece. The sky’s the limit!! ❤
I can only say that this is truly AMAZING. She is proof that young people see, feel, love and hurt just like adults. Her words are powerful yet innocent. I pray God’s blessing upon her. She has such a great talent and I’m so glad she is not afraid to use it. Great job Mom and Dad for the encouragement and guidance.
This is awesome! I love it. So proud of you Victoria!
Wow, Victoria… this was nothing short of incredible. Provoking…moving … I’m so impressed by your writing and even more your mind. What an excellent work.
Wow! This is incredibly moving! Really takes you on a journey of hurt but ultimately hope!
Wow, this is deep, heavy and yet has threads of uplifting verses to stimulate the mind & spirit. #wisebeyondheryears
The message here is layered and a showing of the complex thoughts of a teen mind going through a pandemic fighting for peace, connection, and God’s power to prevail during what’s seems unthinkable. So proud of Victoria for sharing her thoughts through poetry.
This is beautiful. The weight and depth of depression and despair are perfectly articulated…and just when you feel how tenuous the subject’s grasp is on her faith, the author pulls it back from the edge and offers the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. Well done!