{poetry} | back burner.

I wrote some free verse during the sad boi hours yesterday. I had to wait a while to post it ’til I wasn’t feeling it quite as hard anymore.

Lately, I’ve been working on letting people in and asking for help. This has never been easy for me. (I’m my enneagram 2 self loooooves giving help but hates asking for it because I. hate. to. be. a. bother!!!) A friend called me out on it today, asking me if that’s how I like living my life. Of course it’s not, but I’m still trying to figure out how to stop waving through this window and actually asking for help. The world is so much bigger than my problems, but that doesn’t make them completely invalid. (So when do I bug others with them?)

Anyway. Here’s a peek inside my brain.

///

back burner.

i’m the girl behind the glass

watching people laugh as they skip

from stepping stone to stepping stone

myself simply standing

i’m the girl in the wings

waiting for a cue that never comes

others saying lines that elicit reactions and applause

myself simply silent

faces turned up in wonder at the

bright balloons of their aspirations

clutched tightly in their perfect fingers

mine deflated, popped at my feet

“i need them more than they need me,”

the reason i can’t just rid them of myself like

my aching, torn heart demands

i don’t know how to pour from an empty cup

and i don’t want to

but i don’t know how to ask to be filled

i have a one-way radio

that occasionally crackles to life without my doing

but mostly remains void

myself simply aching

so here i stand

on the back burner of my own life

others always before me

and i don’t know how to move

poetry | masquerade.

In masks

I find my respite.

Hide who I am inside

if only to keep people from

somehow finding out who I really

am and hating me for it. Hating me

for being me. Why do I do this?

I shouldn’t. I should be real.

But I’m scared. Too

scared about what

people will think.

But.

If I could

somehow try

to learn how to be

real. To let them in. To

Express myself without these

masks. I could find, in myself,

a bigger person. A girl who

knows her dreams and

isn’t afraid of them.

Who doesn’t let

life pass her

by.

Yes.

I will be that person.

I’ll let go of the masks.

Come what may.

Jesus of the Scars

Edward Shillito was a British minister who witnessed the devastation of WWI. In his attempts to reconcile what he had seen with his faith, he penned these words.
 
“If we have never sought, we seek Thee now;
Thine eyes burn through the dark, out only stars;
We must have sight of thorn-pricks on Thy brow;
We must have Thee, O Jesus of the Scars.
 
The heavens frighten us; they are too calm;
In all the universe we have no place;
Our wounds are hurting us; where is the balm?
Lord Jesus, by Thy Scars, we claim Thy grace.
 
If, when the doors are shut, Thou drawest near;
Only reveal those hands, that side of Thine;
We know to-day what wounds are, have no fear;
Show us Thy Scars, we know the countersign.
 
The other gods were strong; but Thou wast weak;
They rode, but Thou didst stumble to a throne;
But to our wounds only God’s wounds can speak;
And not a god has wounds, but Thou alone.”
 
-Edward Shillito, Jesus of the Scars