I don’t think I can write again.
Stringing words together carries the same kind of shame that looking you in the eyes after what you did to me does.
Maybe it’s better if I refuse to pick up the pen.
Women are not towns nor ships nor territory. We
Cannot be conquered, invaded, and taken over.
We were not designed to be walked over or
Trudged through with heavy boots. Women are
Not poems. We were not born to be read over and
Over to fulfill your need for some form of deeper
Understanding. We are not worn-out metaphors
Or truths waiting to be discovered. We are not
Breaths or heartbeats or body parts to be desired.
We are not a we.
I’m sorry I kept myself bottled in for so long because I couldn’t find the courage to speak my heart out loud. I didn’t know where to begin to pull down the walls I haphazardly put up to keep me safe from being hurt. I’m sorry I never left any cracks or crevices unsealed to let myself seep through. I didn’t realize I was simultaneously keeping the light from reaching me and quenching any opportunity I had to soak it up. I never thought I was being so deceived by the comfort of what I had always known.
I’m sorry that in that darkness I somehow had the cowardly courage to click the lock on the bathroom door and find such an unfriendly object on the shelves. The scars of that failure clung to me for so long. I’m sorry for ever painting myself with the pain I held in my veins. I didn’t have the sense to know that watching the healing on the outside would never heal the inside. I’m sorry that I ever wanted to peel off my own skin in order to be someone else. I danced under the puppeteer of who I was and the strings never allowed me to slip away. It wasn’t until I gathered up the strength to cut those strings that I was free to live in the present under the light. But I never knew how hard it would be to breathe through bandaged ribs.
I’m sorry that I was so enticed by the first boy who ever promised to give me the world. He helped me realize that not everyone intends to live up their word. I still find myself spitting out the memories with him that I so quickly absorbed. I have bruises on my cheeks from the dreams he planted there. I’m sorry that I was completely captivated by the colors he painted. I treated him as though the sky was his canvas and he created every sunset and rise. He used to treat me as though I was the sun. I’m sorry he stopped. The clouds came and the rain soaked me to the bone and the lightning cracked me open and the wind ripped me to shreds but at least I was under the open sky. I’m sorry I let his colors leave so many stains on me. I don’t want to care anymore but tried as I will, I cannot wash him out. I hope someday I will have the chance to tell him how many times I have forgiven him.
It was in this shattered state that I rediscovered the sustaining presence that had never once left. His scars went much deep than mine and He never backed down from the hurt. I used to be sorry for feeling everything so deeply but now I’m just sorry for ever wishing to be numb. I will never apologize again for feeling with everything that is in me. I refuse to stop growing to let more in. I won’t apologize for turning the other cheek and picking up forgiveness at a wooden cross. I refuse to let the hurt leave a bitter aftertaste in my mouth. I’m not sorry for reaching my hands towards the heavens ever after I have given all of my strength away. I refuse to ignore the power that is more than sufficient in my weakness. I will not apologize for who I have grown to be for it is in the shelter of His arms that I have begun to heal.