I sit in the puddle of my tears with a pair of scissors in my right hand. With that pair of scissors, I clip the tips of my yellow petals. It pains my legs, and I’ve never seen petals grow back. I was not pruning, I was self harming and did not realize it— Until I took it upon myself to write this down. Here’s the thing, my yellow skirt hangs above my knees. My other skirts hang above my ankles. My yellow skirt reminds me of a dandelion. This dandy lion has yellow hair and is

Act I : Walked with a cane at 34 years old. Act II : How can he see beneath the veil? Act III : Can he be loved? Act I: Walked with a cane at 34 years old. His legs looked long and lanky, but only because he was so tall, and his pants so finely tailored. He flashed past me at the museum, wearing a yellow coat and brown shoes. The walls were of vermillion as his sharp, invisible eye glanced over the hangings and displays. I paused, marking the bandage wrapped around his wris

Spiral in control. We have spoken of the loveliness of long-suffering; of the sweats and heaves of love. We speak of things merely touched down below; a shadow of heavenly things to come. We sigh and bemoan unlikely burdens until finally we unleash a single claw. Through the claw, we see red. They flogged Him. I love to speak things of romance; of things sly and wise; of harmless good; of a God who calls Himself Jealous and Love. I'd sink into his heart and love Him more dear