Fingers pull at the gashes and scars that litter the body.
They are red,
harsh against the doughy skin they have claimed.
They run so deep into the soul,
Like wells of memory,
easy to fall into.
Then barbed wire,
Displayed as tears,
scratching inside of his throat.
Thumbs lick the roughness of past pain,
eating the contrast of texture between them,
And who he remembers being.
There is no softness left,
his mind whispers,
still trying not to fall into the darkness of the past.
The cave of history is full of rocks,
Sharp with his old blood,
Wet with the waves of depression his therapist begged him to ride instead of drown in.
He wonders about the cave when the tide draws back,
Angry at the darkness,
forcing his fingers to dig into the crevasse of a scab.
He flinches at the freshness of pain,
And watches the light glimmer off the thick liquid dancing down his leg.
He closes his eyes and whispers,
Maybe,
The wound is the place where the light enters you.
I’m crawling back into my shell
Must hibernate for just a spell
My soul and body are not well
I need to flee from outer hell
A sabbatical of the soul…
In need of love to make me whole
My inner peace of mind they stole
Disturbed by every changing role
I’ll sit a while and nurse my pain
Assuage the hurt, comfort to gain
Alone the fight to keep me sane
Undam the tears, my cleansing rain
In the hush of sacred hour
How I feel my Savior’s power
The thorns His, and mine the flower
His love, His grace, a firm tower
Your words can hurt and they can heal
Imbued with heavenly appeal
Clothed with His love, the heart they steal
But, oh, the need to keep them real
Oh, the need to keep them REAL
Eileen Manassian Ghali
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