On my knees, you see it all. Poured out in surrender, this humble offering is my portion.
A ceramic shard of Alabaster punctures the facade, a bloody confession slices the veil.
Summoning the truth, I whisper ever so faintly, "I'm not okay."
I mean it. You hear it.
You do not rush me.
Could this be worship?
My oil for the Master:
A silent sceam?
A tight, white grip?
A broken promise?
A shallow song?
A tangled knot?
A hollow hole?
A crimson stain?
A quiet surrender?
A reopended wound?
A jagged hurt?
Empty people.
Missing pieces.
Fractured places.
Gracefully broken, it seems, is anything but graceful.
A sloppy, messy pile of inadequacy.
And yet, you choose me anyway.
I am wholly undone.