Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

His Love Scared Me To Death

He told me, a trembling wretch, to be unafraid,
and I was uncomfortable with the request,
despite his gaze, so gentle, giving me some comfort.
He told me that he had overcome the world and all its trouble,
and I couldn’t conceive it.
The smallest things were such a struggle, that the world’s truest troubles were too much to even see clearly.
Still, he insisted, his eyes bright and brimming with unlikely optimism,
his hands held mine and I could feel the harsh winds through the holes left by the life he had lived.

How could he ask me to be unafraid?
How could he ask that of me, with thorns across his forehead and a target on his back?
Couldn’t be see what I was afraid of?
Was persecution a foreign concept to the fool with thorns on his head?
How could he ask me to be reborn, when my soul still felt sullied, despite his sacrifice?
Despite my sacrifice and all the scars that had come with it?
He saw. He saw it all and he still asked.

I had tried to lead the life that impotent, angry men had demanded of me,
fighting back against my own biology and the strange, sweet chemistry that greeted me when she and I would lock eyes across the room…
I gave it all up.
I gazed at the ceiling,
praying to Jesus as a shadow I could not look in the face pawed at my lifeless body.
I would rejoice at balled fists meeting my unwilling flesh from one of them,
because it felt less repulsive than a tender, troubled kiss of another,
and why shouldn’t I be punished?
Wayward winter child with her pudding and her pie,
kissed a girl because she was cursed,
and now everyone is crying,
so why shouldn’t I suffer?
I just stared until the ceiling burst into flames,
the stars bursting into view,
because that is what cursed, unclean girls have to do.

He would be there,
the only man I could stand,
thorns adorning his dark, wavy tresses that were wild in the night’s wind.
He simply said, again, that I should be unafraid.
Speaking to a body that was vacant,
he repeated himself as the stars span around his head,
and I thought for a second that I might be dead
(I might have even wished it),
but I was alive,
sailing through the ceiling,
dressed in pretty clothes as the stars sighed in unison.

I was unafraid.

At last, I was unafraid.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Jesus Christ’s Seventeenth Birthday

By the age of seventeen,
Jesus had gotten sick of his Birthday.
The cake was okay,
and the presents had improved since the days of the stable,
but every birthday took him closer to an impossible task,
something he didn’t feel able to do.


It’s a bit much to wake up on your birthday,
and realise you’re supposed to save the world.
Just a boy,
jumped on by all the world’s sin,
sent to sink it into his skin,
and destroy himself for the damned,
so that they could be clean again.

It hung heavy over him,
the heaviest whenever anyone said “Happy Birthday”,
because it reminded him that his life would be short,
and he should treasure each second,
counting down each slice of cake and wrapped up wonder,
wondering if they’d be his last.

His parents had scrimped and saved to get some secondhand tools,
so that he could start work,
but he had started to ask himself what the point was,
when he wouldn’t make it past thirty,
but still,
he sacrificed,
smiling and giving his best grateful hug,
because sacrificing was that little lamb did best.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Mary’s Boy Came Home

You came home,

long hair billowing in the spring winds,

sunlight shining through the open door as the sea of your mother’s tears finally parted and peace returned to her pillow.

She lived another lifetime in the time you were gone,

her eyes were weary but her arms were welcoming,

and you fit so neatly inside her embrace,

because it was your home.

Your soul is scarred but you don’t let her see,

breaking bread while the sun sets,

and she stares with awe filled eyes,

because her heart was gone,

three days of hell,

endured by a pure woman,

who had felt more pain than she had ever caused,

but you came home,

and now her heart is where it belongs.