The Wackness

Quiet music notes humming through cheap speakers and all I can speak is to her, about how it isn't her fault, how even if it's her, it's not her fault, fault lines and cheap cameras and bad whiskey and a million apologies from a boy with a pocket knife just too accessible for a healthy relationship, there's nothing sharper than words and cheddar, and I don't mean money: honestly, I don't mean anything. To write, to escape, to eliminate, to remind myself that just because a wound is healed does not mean people will not later ask of a scar- and I mean this literally, literally imprinted upon some part or all parts of a body and a story and even a spirit has a scar and I wonder if God has any of those. A lot of people manage to hate Him (or It) and I wonder what THAT feels like, even with all the love of the rest of the world and knowing that every time somebody celebrates the beauty of a horizon or reuniting with an old something or finding forgiveness in their heart after so much hurt, even knowing all of that gratitude is yours, how does He hold it together to make another day? The truth is, it's irrelevant, and probably irreverent, and probably I used spell check to spell a word so simple I should know how to spell things like that without looking when I can spell big ole fat words without even a second guess. There's something sick about me some days and I wonder what it is, how to fix it, how to be a big person when I'm so small, how to cry less, how to cry more, how to listen better. The truth is, I can only be this little girl with scars and a song in my head and a cliche to work out. I just have something big big big it's something inside me waiting to pour out so much so the floodgates themselves will cry. Do you know how hard it is just to say what you mean when you aren't even sure what that is only that it IS is the thing? I've grown to love her deeply for her pain without knowing how to forgive myself for my own. Is there such a thing as sin if God already forgave me? I just want to make it all better, wish these bandaids were just a little big bigger. I'm still limping with a bloody foot, even though I finally washed my hair. IF I have a daughter, I'll name her Amelie and build her a big wooden swing with daisies in the yard and I'll know how to do something right, I think. For the record, only some things are true... others are just what they are: words or actions or make happens or do betters or stop cryings. I know that you loved her big, but I want to love bigger, love so that her broken heart can maybe forget that. You know?

Xoxo