Purpose.

I used to believe that sex my purpose. My body had just developed and "blossomed" (such a beautiful word for such an ugly phase) into this fleshy hourglass that everyone was supposed to admire.  I never saw mine as beautiful.  There was always something wrong. I turned my body into this tool for men to dig their teeth into.  I found every outlet for men to feast on me, besides physical sex, itself. Soon, the men took advantage of me - my body became an object for them.  I believed this to be my calling.  They hurt me - physically, emotionally, mentally.  I came home bruised and with a loss of innocence every passing day.  But I was fulfilling my purpose; I was moving towards sex.


And then I fell in love.  I fell in love with a man who showed me that I was worth more than sex. That I was more than a body to him, and more than an object for sex. That I had a higher purpose. The boring ideas of marriage, career, and kids filled my mind.  Once I fell in love, those ideas were no longer boring.  Once I fell in love, I longed for those things.

And, when my heart was broken, I did not lose those desires.  When the man I loved decided to end things the very day I intended to tell him I loved him, I had formed a greater, higher, purpose than I had ever envisioned, prior to that brokenness.  My higher purpose turned from a longing for a man use me for sex to a longing for telling a man that I loved him - and him telling me he loved me back.

UGM 5.23.13: Things I heard.

UGM - 5.23.13

"When I first entered UGM, J. told me that I would find Jesus in the gutter here... when you see a homeless man having a seizure on the street - how could you not believe in God when you see that? You need God when you see things like that.  L. having an eight minute long seizure on the street; I saw Jesus in the gutter tonight."

                                                                                                           - B.

Significant glitch.

After a nauseatingly substantial time, one would think the nauseatingly short "excursion" (if you will) would no longer be significant.  That those moments would be diminished by the substantial growth that took place in those years.  That the fact life changes so rapidly within those years of transition would cause one's mind to erase those ideas and for them to become so insignificant that one could laugh at them.

Not so.

Why are the moments I spend with him utterly joy-filled, yet the moments I leave his presence filled with uncontrollable sobbing? (Sobbing, not those pitiful tears that stream down one's face gracefully.  I mean the kind of crying that makes you look so ugly that you pity yourself.) Why do I scream in frustration at the night sky and then draw a bath for me to soak my sorrows in? Why is there still a lump in my throat whenever I see his frame; smell his fragrance?   Why does it hurt
so
much?

Is this a test from God or the devil himself? Or is this a human flaw, a glitch in my mental wiring?

Or is this life. Or is this love?

My wandering heart.

Wandering heart, I beg of you, let me be.

I am not meant for this. Wandering heart, my plea is this: allow me to be alone; allow me solidarity. If I love him, my clutch is futile. My power will dissolve. He will become my strength; my arms, my legs. He will hold you, my heart! He is stronger than I. My heart - protect yourself! His warmth, his skin, his hands, his feet - I know they are intoxicating.

Stay, my wandering heart.

Clothes.

I stand before you.
My clothes are filthy;
grimy, caked with mud.

I stare at your eyes
your gaze burns;
I turn away.

You approach me,
swiftly, your left foot
then your right.

You are in front of me,
I feel you,
though my eyes are now closed.

I feel your hands
brush my hair
from my face.

Don't do that
don't look at my face
I cry.


You are so gentle,
and you stop
until I open my eyes.

Your face is so near
that the heat
flushes my cheeks.

I look into your eyes
and you wipe the tears
from mine with your thumb.
 
Your hand hovers over me;
your fingers remove my
mud-stained clothing.

My garments fall to the ground,
pooled at my feet.
I look down, ashamed.

You bring my chin up
so I meet your gaze.
My shame is diminished.

You bring me to a mirror
and I look at my flesh,
ivory; clean.

My shoulders rise
as I see I am glowing.
I am new.

I look back for my clothes,
the stench of my old skin,
but they are gone.

A cry.

When will it end?
Oh dear God when will it end?
This horror the pain
the massacre.

Your children, God,
your children
are being slaughtered.
When will it end?

Your kingdom come, God.
Your will be done, God.
On our broken earth
as it is in your heaven.

God make it end.
Our guns cannot make it end.
Our words cannot make it end.
Our governments
cannot
make
it
end.

Let it be finished God.
For thine is the kingdom
and the power
and the glory
forever.

Amen.

Context.

It starts with normalcy.
The dry dullness
that is only satisfying
because it is
safe.

Somewhere along the line
the balance is
snapped.
 Like a stress-fracture;
unnoticed.