Marble Bodice Washed in Tears
This is written as a survivor's way to process trauma. Writing on this page is used to help the writer cope with the trauma they have been subjected to.
Tw: SA, religion
2 Corinthians 10:4-5
"The weapons we fight with are not the weapons of the world. On the contrary, they have divine power to demolish strongholds."
I will not write your name, so you can not own me
I believed in atheism when I rose out of the womb
A flower, a metaphor between my legs
He said he did not enjoy poetry
Yet he knew how to pose the words, position of attack.
I wonder if the people who say they are not sad have a different tolerance for sadness.
Beauty is pain, so my suffering must carve me gorgeous
Each time suffered, the Father has taken to carve my heart
A magnificent wood worker
Each divot and dent
No time to cry over unwashed feet
Jesus wash away my sins
There is no time, it’s over
For the past is the past
And after seven years, the pain won’t last
It takes seven years for a body to recycle cells
7 years till you will have never touched me
Michelangelo sculpted marble angels
I imagine the heavenly father’s hands have taken my suffering
Pressurized sand is pushed into diamonds
As amber is simply fossilized tree sap
The pressure and panic that have caressed my skin
As holy water assisting the hand of God
God has taken my tears, my sweat, my saliva
A body is 70 percent water
A women can bleed 3 to 9 tablespoons of blood each cycle
90% of blood is water
I bled for him
He liked the the bruising of my skin
Like purple watercolor iris, my body was his canvas, cursed
As I was baptized in holy water the association of artists
Were wiped clean.
Jesus saw the dirt and dust that he(you) called paint, pain
Past experience are the past
But they are tools that have tampered with my tired soul
A hammer, my misfortunes
A chisel, my grief
A paintbrush, my trauma
An alabaster knife, to cut into my arteries
The Father takes a hammer to my misfortunes
And mold me
You are stronger than your troubles
The Father takes a chisel to my grief
And mold me
Grieve, and then celebrate
The Father takes a paintbrush to my trauma
And mold me
He does not own you
The Father takes knife to my pain within my heart
And mold me
This pain is yours and yours alone, it doesn’t belong to anyone else, you have power over it
And to God,
My skin, in its early days, or after 7 years.
Or now my dirted skin as it has been sinned and been sinned against.
My eyes, impressionable eyes
Eyes that were fogged and dulled
Mud was washed within them and it hurt and I cried
Eyes often complemented and now are beautiful and can see
Thank you for the clarity
My hands, burnt by his fingertips and opinion
And as they remain healed and clean
Washed
My heart and the blood that it pumps
It’s easy to forget it’s blue inside
Take my blood not as I take yours
Take my brain and heart and muscles I borrow
How hard my heart pumps blood for life?
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