poems-by-b

[poems-by-b]

1.8.25

Bred from shock waves in tectonic plates—

megathrusts, landslides, volcanic eruptions—

emotions on the sea floor.

Little disturbances

when they start in the deep, reaching

barely to the surface,

undetectable.

They travel, in minutes or hours, to

swallow up my coast,

unmissable.

At times crossing the entire expanse of me.

At others crossing only part.

Undeniably,

I am left, drenched, in an

impersonation of low tide.

I look to the beach;

the dwellers are dry.

They ask me why I wore my clothes into the water.

Maybe the ocean did not crash down on me.

But—

how to explain why I could not breathe,

why my body was tossed around?

Maybe I am the one who carelessly waded in.

[poems-by-b]

1.5.25

I walk through this desert of life—

scorching and exhausting,

it burns my nose.

I would not notice the pain,

except it's the feature of mine which

itches the most often.

There is a treasure somewhere, here,

I have been promised,

but the map was written by men

who speak in riddles.

Long gone,

I can not ask them to interpret.

My eyes lift to the one

who told them what to say,

but His words do not come out

any clearer.

I have not learned to speak

each language He has created.

Rather, I must gather His meaning

from gestures, must believe

He will let me understand.

What does it say that I dream,

daily,

of losing the map and

leaving the desert?

If only,

if only.

I am more than a traveler.

I am a creature unknown, roaring,

with shackles on her wrists.

Those that bind me make me plod along.

Their whips crack against my skin,

searing, slicing, sharp

reminders that I must walk

or die.

What would my rampage be

if I was released?

They are afraid to find out.

What breed am I?

What beast?

Displayed for publicity:

"Look what we have tamed!"

"Far from human!"

"Aren't you amazed?"

Alone,

in this cage I reside,

stored away when there is none

to gawk,

to mock.

How dare I ask to be saved?

"No—

you sit there, and you think

of how to bear your purpose.

It was made just for you.

Be grateful!

This is love in its highest form:

you, contained.

It is the only way,

the righteous way.

We have begged to conquer,

in days where your kind is too free,

to be unified.

This oneness can only take place

with you,

separated,

yet still part of us."

To belong is a wish I regret faithfully.

I miss my own culture,

the one my ancestors gave

flesh and blood to form.

I miss my own people,

the ones who taught me,

with intricacy, how to be.

I miss a home I did not live in long enough,

one without conditions.

My heart cries for them, but

I cannot go back.

Oh, how I would be known there,

yet I am here,

drops of my soul drying up.

It's a quiet insanity I am left with.

They do not let me be loud.

[poems-by-b]

1.4.25

"Never" is a word people don't know

how to swallow.

Like "forever", it is not a thing we

understand.

Like "eternity", it is not a place we

can sail to the ends of.

I have wondered many times if it

can be explained to me.

How do I grow to accept it?

How do I come to not mind it?

Do I dare ever think I'll be glad of it?

Repeatedly, I am reassured

with the idea that I cannot know

if "never" will ever happen.

I have no control of such things.

This is supposed to be better than it.

I am meant to avoid it,

yet I want to know how to live with it.

It seems the only way to live with "never"

is to constantly hope it doesn't afflict you.

Does the same sentiment work

on someone who has been smoking

fifty years

and for whom cancer is as inevitable as

their next cigarette?

Can they, too, hope it away?

I am not addicted to nicotine,

just to loving the only people

God does not want me with.

Why has He made them so desirable

when something can "never" come of it?

He knows the way my heart longs

for who I cannot have.

He sees the way her soul shines.

Why must it "never" shine for me?

My own is made dim from the way

hers sparkles for a man.

He is God's beloved,

but he is no one special.

I would wish to be a man,

but then my love would not be

so tender, so sweet.

I am made to care for her

in a way that only hurts me.

Is it pure to spend a life aching

for someone

with no satisfaction?

If the grief runs out,

have I made "never" my friend?

Is the war over?

Do we retreat to our own sides,

weapons stowed away,

so there are no more casualties?

Is a treaty drawn?

Do we let the blood seep

into the ground

as if it was never there at all?

What becomes of "never" if the grieving

doesn't cease?

[poems-by-b]

11.24.24

I am on my own exodus.

I have thought this before,

bitterly thought there was no manna

for me,

no water

because it was not amassing

abundantly in my hands.

I am an Israelite.

I am confused,

full of complaint and distrust,

was convinced God was not there

because I could no longer feel full

from the delicacies of my past.

I was brought out of my own Egypt,

my body bound by desires I clung to.

Some still stick to my skin.

I was so furious the Red Sea

did not wash me clean

that I did not notice

I was spared from

every drop of water.

This was not enough for me.

I camped,

thirsting for water,

hungering for food.

Displeasure danced from my lips:

I left for God,

why was I not seeing the flowing milk and honey?

I fled for Him,

why am I not cared for in the ways I deserve?

I thought He wasn't listening,

thought He'd never respond to my discomfort.

Did this Promised Land even exist?

Did its Maker?

I wished I was back in Egypt,

that I'd never left,

that I'd lived a long life ignoring the wilderness

or died from what I was enslaved to.

It would've been better that way.

But He heard my anger.

He sensed the underlying fear.

Every Moses and Aaron who told me

to trust Him

was made sincere by the manna

He sprinkled on the ground.

I wasn't sure what it was.

I'd never seen it before.

Moses told me it was what I needed, but

there was only so much meant for me.

I had to go collect it every day.

My hands began to gather more

than what filled my stomach.

The doubt crept in;

I didn't think it would be there tomorrow.

I rested, finally full, finally calm,

and when I woke,

my stores were no good.

I needed more, needed new.

I had to go collect it every day.

I am still learning to do this,

but there are forty years left in my journey.

My feet have not yet been carried to Canaan—

they might never be—

but I will freely drink the milk

and feed off the honey

when I am led to eternity.

[poems-by-b]

11.16.24

A soul does not become colored

on its own.

Purple and blue and black and yellow can

paint a nice picture but

not if they are added with

sharp stabs of the brush that

relent only when the

artist is choosing which shade to

use next.

He does not stop to catch His breath,

does not stop to let me.

The clay I am made of

is thrown to the surface,

the force reverberating through my body.

The people watching call it art,

but really it feels like assault

to have the air pounded out of me.

I am the reason it has to be this way.

His creative process has no faults, so

it must be that my canvas does not

accept light strokes,

must be that I am filled with

earthen impurities.

I am not allowed to be put back

on the shelf or

in the bin.

Who else would bring Him

notoriety?

fame?

He must make me into something worthwhile

or I will be painted over,

my colors forgotten altogether,

so I can become something else.

I will explode in the kiln,

my detonation piercing every

project around me.

The other pieces promise there will

be a moment

where He will begin to add tiny details

and smooth His thumbs over me.

They promise it will be worth it,

that I should have hope.

I have no reason to believe it won't happen.

Except

when I look up at Him,

I do not see a loving craftsman.

I see a looming presence who has

control over my finality,

movements that make me flinch,

more power to wield against me

than I can ever level with.

He is loving and tender to them.

I am the recipient of His violence,

the one who continuously

fuels His rage,

His burning hatred.

Telling Him this only stokes His fury.

If the others could see what happens,

if they knew what He does,

if they believed me,

they would tell me to get out.

If they did not think

I was stretching reality,

if they understood this is not just a metaphor,

they would tell me to run.

But I stay and am scarred forever,

grooves etched deep into my fabric,

lines cracked so widely,

they cannot be covered.

I am supposed to change the lens through

which I view Him.

I practice gazing up at Him in every

way I can,

but He is the same

yesterday,

today,

forever.

I am told this as reassurance.

Instead, it solidifies my fear.

They tell me if I survive,

I will stay with Him

for eternity—

their artist,

my abuser.

[poems-by-b]

11.11.24

My life is perpetually lived in a valley.

The rocks rise around me,

jagged.

It's for my good—

to keep picking my way through the desert—

but I don't believe in good anymore.

I will live in guilt if I climb the

canyon walls;

my feet will continue bleeding if I don't.

I stumble over the cracks,

skin split,

trying to learn something new from

a fact I already know,

a point already proven:

my life is nothing without God and

nothing with Him either.

Vultures circle above me, their wings

beat loudly in my ears. They are

waiting for my body to decay

just enough, for my bones to return

to dust.

Hope used to be my companion, but it

disappeared

in the night.

I woke up,

it was gone.

I am alone.

Where is the pillar of cloud

at daybreak

or the pillar of fire

when the sun falls?

I am on my own exodus,

making my way in the wilderness,

just me.

There is no manna,

no water from the rock

making me trip.

Quietly, so silently I

almost

didn't notice,

a creature skitters up beside me.

I cannot understand what it says.

It is too small to make a difference,

but it is there,

so it does.

I am too tired to go on,

so the creature does for me.

It stays just ahead,

calling back over its shoulder

that everything will be okay.

I can't imagine how.

I want to.

I sit and stand and lay and

think:

this is supposed to work out.

How can it?

Only if the evil are no longer vile,

only if their lonsdaleite hearts

soften to talc,

only if they stop trying to play God,

but how can I believe those things

will happen when

God has never been so kind to me?

What a selfish way to see the world.

None of this is crafted for my benefit,

it all belongs to Him.

My days are treacherous, unrelenting,

not my own.

They belong to Him.

My suffering belongs to Him.

My fear,

my—

it is all His.

I exist and endure to polish His image,

to spread His words.

He can do everything except these things

Himself.

Isn't there so much joy in this partnership?

Isn't it wonderful He entrusts this to us?

These saccharine explanations do not

excuse this imbalance of power

wielded over my head like

the sword over Damocles.

At what point does this relationship become abusive?

At what point does the ice melt

so it can no longer soothe

the purple and blue and black and

yellow marks coating my soul?

When is enough too much?

Is there a way I can divorce myself

from the beatings

and get the court to award me anything

other than death?

The vultures are descending.

I have not gone on.

My flesh bakes in the heat.

They carry pieces away in their beaks.

[poems-by-b]

10.23.24

My life is composed of testing waters

after problems rise around me in waves.

I rotate through a list of people,

hesitating.

Can I tell you how this bothers me?

Can I tell you how this hurt me?

You agree but don't mean it.

I can tell by your silence.

You wish I never spoke at all.

If only my eyes could meet yours—

maybe then I would know if you

have saved me any empathy,

if you meant to make me feel so

embarrassed?

ashamed?

My words slow; I move on,

down the checklist of what grieves

my soul.

I tire of the repitition.

So must you.

More than once, I have heard of

parents defending their children,

educators speaking for their students:

emotions can be small to us—

unnecessary,

unproportional—

but fit so snugly within their

sense of the world.

I wish I was still a child,

wish my hyper-reactivity

was allowed to

push itself to new limits,

wish it was okay for

each paper cut

to be the gash from which I bleed out.

Have a childlike faith, but

don't be childlike?

If I have been born again,

then I am not yet three years old.

A loving parent works through

their child's emotions,

the process complex,

completed together.

God loves me,

but do I love Him back?

Do I let Him crouch on the floor beside me

as I scream and cry that I'm dying

after an innocent glance from a stranger?

This turmoil,

so present in my head,

in my close relationships,

remains invisible to my acquaintances—

thirty-eight girls placed in one room,

all because we want to change the world.

Gossip is everywhere,

and talk of boys, so many

boys,

always

boys.

The line I walk between

transparency and a double-life

remains taught.

I long for truth,

to be known,

to be seen.

But with what opportunity?

My life, my agony

is shut tight behind a door.

I want to open it,

am filled with a restless hope,

but no one will undo the lock.

No one will slip me the key.

I wait, losing oxygen,

breathing silently as I listen for

the right time.

It never comes.

I am misunderstood—

permanently.

I am told I am the same,

whether the door is

open,

shut.

It doesn't change my personality,

but it changes me.

[poems-by-b]

10.22.24

The people around me

tell me

church is vital.

The sermon

is great,

is powerful,

is convicting,

is about them.

Analogies and references crowd the words

God uses

to teach

to shape

to correct

to relate.

But I do not have a place among them.

Experiences

from marriage, from dating

push and elbow their way in.

My heart cries out,

I seek comfort.

My heart is batted away.

What the pastor said is

normal,

unsurprising,

not pointed at you to make you feel

flatlined,

to make the breath leave your

lungs,

to make your muscles turn to

stone.

What the pastor said makes sense.

I search for someone who will hold

my quivering,

bruised

heart.

I find them—

one single leaf in a forest—

latch on—

parasitic.

My clinging brings me life.

For all others,

a sense of pity,

disturbance,

discomfort.

My affection is misplaced again.

A glimpse of support,

ever vague,

is carelessly tossed my way.

The dart lands on the board this time;

it does not pierce the wall.

What the pastor said is fine.

You are just searching

again

for something to be upset about.

How else can he explain God's desire for us?

How else can we understand our relationship,

except through the gift He has given us?

Because we all

want that,

all have a chance to

have that,

all of us can

understand that.

Where is my understanding, my gift?

Am I left with a faith,

half formed,

because he forgot

again

to think of me?

[poems-by-b]

10.18.24

Friendships change

and reform—

it happens all the time.

But then—

why is it so startling?

I cross my heart,

give it to someone

I want to hold it—

forever.

But forever is not a thing we understand.

Eternity is a thing that stretches

wide, expansive,

unending on all sides of us.

We pretend we know its reaches,

yet all we have really met is

the dust settling behind us.

We paint a picture through the haze,

choosing our best

brushes,

paints,

crafting the smoothest

lines,

curves.

8.2 billion different

concepts capture

the clouds of our past,

starting at different points.

Who was there for

half of my painting?

Whose artwork am I standing

in now?

The dust ripples also

our sense of those

beside us.

We see them so unclearly,

we must create them, too.

Memories stuck together,

more good than bad if you like them,

more bad than good if you don't.

Both shape someone into who

they are not.

They cannot live up to

all their best moments—

will not live up to

all their worst.

Eternally,

we are disappointed.

[poems-by-b]

9.29.24

I have heard recently

that to be unknown is to live

while dying on the inside.

But how to live again?

I have not heard.

I have not been instructed on how to be seen,

on how to smash the glass

that seems so clear but is

grimy and streaked,

filmed with the mire that my tears pour

out of my soul,

dusted with the mud buried in the cracks

of my palms.

I am a hummingbird,

fluttering feverishly,

drinking my fill from the flowers I hover next to.

Satisfied, but only for a moment.

I dart between petals and stems,

draining what sweetness I can

before my wings are pinned to my sides.

The flowers inspect me

only when I am near.

They have taught me to hate my colors,

to strip my feathers

so I am barren before them.

I fight to keep myself aloft on naked wings,

returning to drink more frequently,

needing sustenance,

seeking it from places I have already emptied.

I have no other choice—

no one has ever been willing to set out nectar for me.

Raw, plucked, pink,

I settle into a state of torpor.

I am passed but not prodded,

witnessed but not touched.

Living still

but dying on the inside,

easily seen

but not really known.

[poems-by-b]

9.22.24

My emotions pool like water,

dirty and thick and full of disease.

Hands desperately reaching, scoop into the mirror.

The image distorts, my sense of self shaky,

rumbling, unclear.

Back out again, trying, trying to hold onto the liquid.

Suddenly thin, it slips out again.

Why won't it stay in the cup I form?

Why won't it stay in my makeshift bowl?

I need it to show those I cling to,

those I call my friends.

They stand at the edge of the glass,

paying more attention to each other than to me.

I'm not trying to be a spectacle,

not trying to be the most important.

Just somebody.

If only I could show them what only I seem to see.

These feelings run through the cracks in my resolve.

They ooze and drip in snatches I can't hold together.

But they are never enough to show the whole picture.

All that is left when I turn

is my slippery palms,

clumps of mud made impure by algae and clay.

The onlookers peer in when I catch their attention.

Fleetingly, they glance at my prize.

Unimpressed, unmoved, they nod their heads.

They do not reach to take the mud from me.

I dip my hands once more to rinse them clean,

to remove the crowd's discomfort.

Another presence watches from over my shoulder.

Silent, He waits for them to walk away

towards bigger and better things.

I am His bigger and better thing.

Except He gives no signal, no sign.

I meet His eyes but cannot read them,

see His gentle smile but cannot feel it

touch my heart.

He's the one I should have invited,

yet He shows up only as an afterthought.

With Him only.

With people, too.

Lines I am unable to cross,

a dichotomy I cannot unify.

One who is always there, but I never remember,

ones who I always remember but are never there.

My mind spins

as I try to make a decision:

who to go to,

how to go to both.

Is it wrong to want more

than the God of provision is willing to provide?

We stand unspeaking but still staring.

I open my mouth for words to come out,

but they don't.

It seems they never do.

I was taught how over and over,

taught there is no way,

taught I have to make my own way.

Examples swirl around me, all working for someone,

but not for me

because I am nobody.

A new group makes its way through the trees,

looking for me.

Is this what it is to be desired?

I face them, watching them move, studying them.

Maybe one day, I can do what they do,

turn my examinations into application.

Where did they learn?

Who taught them?

They come to the water;

I forget the presence behind me.

I scoop my emotions into my hands again,

watch in vain as they disappear once more.

[poems-by-b]

10.17.23

Do people really know the depths of their hearts?

Can they put word to feeling,

to sensation?

Is there a lens that they look through

to sharpen and clarify,

to prune and cultivate

the exact word that in my head

can only be pictures,

that in my body,

can only be reaction?

I am not trained to name

the reactions or the pictures.

I am not trained to assign them words,

except by a list of synonyms—

a list full of no real variation,

just shades of meaning that I can't discern.

Each one falls under a theme:

happy or sad,

angry or anxious or fear.

The theme is as far as I get.

I am only ever uncomfortable,

only ever excited.

I cannot explain why.

I cannot verbalize,

only depict.

Will I go on like this forever,

wondering how to communicate,

how to speak,

how to be

any way that doesn't confuse me,

how to lay my soul out bare for my friends

in a way that doesn't force me

to get out my paints

and pencils

and paper?

Conciseness is not possible,

I can only give more

than what is wanted.

I can only give so much

that it never

ends up being

enough.

[poems-by-b]

10.3.23

I'm beginning to gain an appreciation

for a life lived solely with you.

I'm beginning to see it's not all bad,

all pointless,

all wrong.

I can appreciate the quiet,

the mundane.

I can make my own decisions,

my own life.

I do not have to defer or check.

My heart can seek you out unhindered.

I am not forced to think about how or

if

my discoveries impact another.

I can be free to think about how I can grow,

can learn,

can worship.

If I want people and all their opinions,

then, and only then,

do I feel pushed to go looking.

The trouble, of course,

is that I go wanting often.

I look out of habit,

searching not in you,

or even myself,

for what is good,

for what will make me feel whole.

I am beginning to get comfortable with boredom and quiet.

My life may never be this busy again,

but I'd rather fall back

on a God I'm familiar with

than a God I don't know at all.

The woman across the street is alone,

but she is not lonely.

I see her dogs and cat,

I see cars in her drive,

I do not know her story

but I know things are calm,

and I do appreciate the calm.

So I will search for the calm,

get to know solitude well,

get to know God even more.

My future is beautiful

because it is planned by the one who made beauty.

[poems-by-b]

6.28.23

There are not quite words

to form around the sensations that overtake my body.

I am furious,

in anguish,

lonely,

aching,

drowning in what inhabits my soul.

I don't understand it.

I swear it's something serious,

but then it's gone before I can put my thumb on it.

I wish it made sense.

I wish there were steps to follow,

but I am left with my feelings

rising around me in a murky haze.

The only way to decipher it is

to put it in images:

a force pushing me down,

holding me to the ground;

water filling my lungs;

screaming as loud as I can

in the middle of a thousand trees.

The force beats me in the chest,

holds my arms,

yanks on my legs.

It stops for nothing,

does not pay attention to how I beg.

I am in the thick mud,

trying to wade my way through.

Why is this impossible?

I watch the world move from behind a plate of glass,

so thick that it's a wall.

It cannot be broken,

it cannot be moved,

but it follows me everywhere,

hiding me from the world,

letting me see out,

stopping anyone from seeing in.

I dance for an audience

that is still waiting for its performer.

The force conceals me so well that it's almost like

I have never existed at all.

I used to think

my life was a nightmare.

I used to think

I would wake up one day

and it would all be gone.

All of the confusion,

all of the sickness,

all of the missed chances

would all be

opportunities I haven't taken.

This is not what has happened.

It's all too real,

too fast,

to be a dream.

I have too much control,

too much awareness

to get to go back

to do it all over again.

I am still expecting

to wake up

and be eight years old.

I still feel as though I don't understand

what's happened to me,

what I've done,

how I've ended up here.

It's like I can pinpoint the moment that it all changed.

I could find it on a timeline—

the instant my life was no longer my own.

Most of what I remember is this new one,

this new one that is not mine.

I don't belong in it.

Something about it is wrong.

Who would I have been

if I continued to be the one in charge?

All I know is that I was never in charge,

at least not when it mattered,

not when I was expected to make all of this my own.

Why have I not yet joined the land of the living?

Is this why I cannot shake

that which urges me to end this?

Is this why death

criss-crosses through my mind,

leaving its footprints

where they cannot be ignored?

Is this why I want to grab my head,

shake it like an Etch-a-Sketch,

hope the lines will be erased?

Is this why my thoughts

are like a wild animal

on a short leash, always making itself known

whenever it pulls on the chain?

Is this why

I cannot imagine a life

where my brain is clear, and it does not feel too heavy

with the weight of what I cannot ignore?

Is this what's stopping me?

Will it be over when I wake?

[poems-by-b]

6.24.23

The right word for this

may not be a poem,

it may be a plea,

a desperate cry.

The summer is long,

and hard,

and painful.

It is lonely,

clarifying.

The silence sweeps over me

so loud I think my ears may burst.

I do not know how to grow used to

it being like this.

I do not know how to make

solitude my home.

How do I make them love me,

make them care,

when I am not the one they raised?

Two years have passed,

I have learned to raise myself in the ways that I am called.

Is it calling or oppression?

My mind cannot tell the difference—

one day I am full of peace, of hope;

the next, guilt rains on me like the perfect summer storm.

Shove it down, block it out,

who told you that was necessary?

Who told you to feel shame?

There is no place for it,

don't talk about it,

confess,

hold your tongue.

My mind flips and turns,

shoving words into my friends' mouths.

They are not here to deny them.

There is no one to quiet the unbearable thoughts.

They rattle in their cage,

angered at having

no way out.

There is no one to listen,

no one to tell them

they are so very untrue.

The din rises

unceasing.

Why doesn't anyone care?

Of course they care—

it is you who hopes they won't

care too much.

Don't send me away,

don't expose me.

Death lingers longest of all,

outlasting simple tortures.

No one sane keeps their mind this way.

They tidy and prune and expel.

Teach me to do that,

how did you learn?

What is the secret to asking God?

How can I copy your authenticity?

I remember to try

when there's no time left,

when I'm caught without a distraction,

when I can't drown out what's in my head.

The attempts don't stick.

They are scattered,

disjointed.

No cohesion, no consistency.

I busy my body

so my mind is the right kind of loud,

so I won't have to wonder

if I'll have parents today,

if my friends can stand to hear from me,

if I am selfish and cruel.

I think I must be—

all I can hear is myself,

all I can feel is my own anger,

rising,

rising.

Where is everyone?

Why can't they come home?

It's only after they slink and trudge into the house that

my body calls for isolation.

It rebels against them,

wielding frustration and hurt,

as they remind me

over and over

of why my soul is used to being alone until

I am crippled with fear

that I may not outlast this.

I scream and scream,

am met with the ringing of my own voice.

There is no answer.

When will someone hear me?

I hope it won't be too late.

I hope the measures won't be too drastic.

I want out,

get me out.

See me,

hear me,

love me,

heal me.

Won't anyone do anything?

I'm looking in the wrong place.

In an empty box,

there is only meaningless air.

I cry out for help, but it doesn't change.

When will it change?

I fix my eyes on the end of summer,

not on the one who can end my anguish.

I wonder how anyone can stand these months.

How can they take it?

How can they let it rest on their shoulders?

What am I doing that is so wrong?

How do I try?

I haven't learned how.

I need their help.

But it's my relationship,

my faith.

I feel like I'm supposed to know this.

They trust me to lead,

but I cannot take myself to the feet of God

to empty out my brain.

I must rely on pencils,

papers,

friends,

songs.

This part of me is broken.

Intimacy is impossible.

I don't know how to do this, God.

How much clearer can I say it?

My thoughts are clouded in darkness.

I want your light to break through.

This is my submission,

my plea,

my desperate cry.

Lead me out of my head and into your loving arms.

I cannot take another day without your embrace,

but I am too afraid to die.

It's not what I want.

I want to find my place with you.

I cannot do it myself.

Please show me, please show me.

I want to turn the silence

from a mark of my misery

into a chance to hear your voice.

I trust you,

now help me act.

Reveal my steps.

Please show me, please show me,

please.