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Sturdy oak creaks as my weight shifts, hands tangling in my hair.  

My chair scrapes hardwood as I begin to pace. 

Processing... Processing...

The flickering lamp casts strange shadows on the walls. 

I sit back down. I can’t possibly write this standing up. 

 

You always ask me how I’m processing.

What am I supposed to say?

My scattered brain races to form coherent thoughts over that thing on the wall laughing,  

Twisting tick, tick, tick, tock ticking away at my sanity. 

My mind stumbles to form thoughts beneath its rhythm. 

 

That I’m disobeying my God for you,

That I’m risking my soul, that I'm going this far for you,

And yet, I want to do it again?

My pen spins until my fingers fumble and a line of ink mars the page. 

It smudges the more I try to erase what I can’t possibly put into words. 

 

Because I like what we do—

I like how you make me feel,

I like you—

but I can’t tell how you feel,

so I keep...

 

I stand too quickly, my chair toppling from the force. 

The floor creaks as I pace back and forth,  

Images of rough hands and soft kisses following me around the room.  

That torturing timepiece on the wall mocks me, tick, tick, tick, tock taunting my lack of focus. 

Processing... Processing...

 

I pick up the pen, hesitate, put it down, then pick it back up again.  

My eyes squeeze shut as I hunch over damned words.

I refuse to go that far, even though I yearn to

Burning the oil won’t keep my lantern lit, but I’m tempted by our flash flame.

I yearn to give it all up; I refuse to forsake Him.

 

So then...how do I keep you?

Ink isn’t the only thing staining the paper now.  

My eyes sting, my throat closes up. 

My grip on the pen tightens as I make myself continue to write.

I feel hypocritical so I’m—

 

I look to the ceiling as the emotions overwhelm, 

And a flash of silver catches my eye. 

The mirror on the desk shows mottled cheeks.  

I turn it away. 

Processing... Processing...

 

I crumple the paper, toss it with the others in the trash.  

Maybe I’ll find peace of mind this way. 

 

I haven’t let go of my instinct of self-preservation,

His instinct for soul-preservation,

so I keep processing...

 

Grabbing a fresh sheet of paper, 

My hand trembles as I put my chewed pen to the new page. 

 

Processing..... Processing.......
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