Consider This

Consider this a fable: I was lying on the floor, coughing from the smoke and haze. The house was on fire. Let's try and forget that it was me who started the fire, and let's forget that is was also me who locked the door. Let's pretend I never shouted up at You: “I give up!”. Let's pretend these burns of mine were not self-inflicted, let's say someone else is to blame for my disfiguring wounds. I can't look myself in the eye anymore, what a demonic and twisted dichotomy I am; victim, and rapist.

But let's remember that it was You who pulled me out of the burning house. Let's make a note that it was You who never gave up on me. Let's commit it to memory that You are the one who still thinks I am beautiful. I'll never know how You can look at me, stains on my pants, and see someone who is worth anything, someone who is pure and innocent.

Now it's true, my lungs still ache, and it's true these scars will remain, but You don't care, I am still as beautiful as ever, in Your eyes. I think you must have pulled me out for a reason. What is it You see in me? You must see something. Is it pride to wonder what? I'll never understand the depth of Your feelings for me. And I don't think I need to know the extent of love You have for me. I just need to remember it's there, and it is deeper than I can ever know.

It is a strange thing to be loved so completely, and yet.....I don't even know your name. I have never seen Your face, or...have I, and I just didn't know it was You?

Is is true that You are in rain and in the sunlight? Are You really found in the kind words between friends? I think maybe I have seen You after all.

Once upon a time, You were only as real as she was. I saw Your love in her eyes, and I heard Your name when she spoke. I think this was true, and at the same time, I know it was a mistake. You see, she didn't know what I saw in her, she didn't realize she was my only link to seeing a real life angel. She could have never guessed the divine impact she would have on me. I know that You did, I think You brought her around on purpose, so I would stop praying and actually begin to have a conversation with You.

Because when You become real to someone, they wake up. They stop driving the nails into their own eyes. Because when You become real to someone, they stop running. They stop crying to the sky, “I give up!”. They know deep that down that You've always been real, and they were just blind. But You won't force Yourself down anyone's throat, You wait for them to finally see You for the first time.

Consider this a revision: My life was on a path of purpose, picket-fence, hopes and dreams. And now, after I burned down that house, not a single blade of grass is growing. I've been wallowing in the tear soaked ashes like a schizophrenic hog, eager to relive old pains. But as always, You picked me up, and dusted me off. I wish I could see the purpose You've set in me. I wish I could see the man You love, but after all, I can't look in the mirror anymore, I am repulsed by that pig staring back, I am afraid of the memories so fresh, so sweet, so dangerous. You could have left me to die, hell, I asked You to leave to me to die. But You just couldn't let me wither away into nothing; because I know You made me to be something. And now, at this point, I am a wide-eyed little child holding Your hand as You whisper: “Everything is going to be alright.”