A letter with sincerest intent,
Man of Sorrows whose sorrows I have created, free me from this addiction that cannot be sated. A thirst so great with no well deep enough, let alone something to draw with.
I never knew something that was forced upon me would create such disdain, such a stain, like Merlot spilt on the white shirt of my brain.
“Could you pass the club soda? What’s the use, it’s already soiled.”
So I’m left to cope.
Sometimes I search you with bitterness, and sometimes with doubt, sometimes shrinking back at your clout, others ending with a shout, “Why can’t I find joy in you? Why can’t I be whole? Won’t you save me from your daughters? Won’t you save me from the things that I have made of them?”
Lilith, you spoke the stain upon Eve, conceiving the grieving of my Father’s spirit. Hear it and wail like my heart when something as small as a 4 inch screen can be my downfall.
mon cœur ravagé par le péché.
mes mains tachées de désirs trouvés entre les draps.
How do you cut out a sin so deep? How do you stop what’s natural? I’ve heard the clichés. That’s all there ever is.
How do I find wholeness in you when no one wants to be real? Their every answer primed with church pew lacquer. Understanding as thin as the pages they base their life on.
Sometimes I am ashamed to call them brother and sister. Sometimes I’m ashamed of me. Sometimes I’m ashamed of you.
Lord whose name do I bear and wear it? Can it be yours? It’s not like this one they speak of here. That one is faint, passed through tongue and cheek like a whore. I just want your name to mean what it really means. Can it be more solid in my life? I see you in books, praised over laté meetings through coffee stained ivory, sung over generic keys of C and E, on bumper stickers, tee shirts, and decorative wall lettering.
Lord, when did you become a statuette? When did you become an ideal? I’m tired of holding my questions behind my teeth. I’m tired of keeping things just beneath.
How do I make you real again, in a world of handshakes and how-do-you-dos? Where the church gets to create a mold of your image, selling it in bulk.
YOU’RE NOT JUST ONE THING!
I can’t see the Grace in your wife anymore. Isaiah, when Christ touched that coal to your lips did you know you would utter my destruction? Did you know the Creation would groan in this way? Where Yahweh’s temple would become a place to find a mate and nothing more.
Yes Lord, I’m bitter.
It’s because I’ve kept quiet for so long, allowing my heart to rot along with your body. I am vulgar at times, I am prideful.
I am broken.
“My heartache is as yours. Why do you believe I stand apart from this pain? You cause me grief as much as the next, do I love you any less?”
I have this groaning in my being, I don’t want to settle for what this world is presenting. I’m uncomfortable, itching in my own skin. When you calmed the seas and sighed,”Oh you of little faith.” Did you know you were speaking to me?
I don’t understand but I wish to. Please help me understand this burning and why the pain is necessary. Manifest in me your manifest destiny.