this sickness envelopes mortal form,
for pain tastes just so palpable—
‘cause when her wrists burn from the stripes that she placed there,
perhaps she’ll then glean some semblance of control.

darling, it’s with a heavy heart i write
searching for answers in surfacing letters
which float like cadavers to the surface of this paper.
when we mark our lives with anything but Grace
i find that truth is easy to efface.
for drowning in self-hate’s undertow
we’ve forgotten which way’s up and which way’s down.

she’s got a heart made out of empty boxes,
built more for temporary storage.
she wears pretty dresses and doesn’t even try to hide
the battle scars that float upon her skin.
in her eyes i see oceans and waves
but they mask a past of which she is so afraid.

daddy’s cold fists and cold beers went hand-in-hand
and his empty soul that longed for a home
begged for a solace that transcended control.

momma was too busy talkin’ church to recognize
her daughter had red lines across her arms.
too consumed by her own need to feel worthwhile,
she made her daughter feel worthless
seeking vanity and labeling it “righteousness.”

little girl, only four years old,
gettin’ touched in the dark by men full-grown,
crying out loud because she’s dying alone
where were you, God, while she drowned in her own home?

so, she turned to the blade, bled red on her arms
and crimson rubies mingled by her wrists
as she tried with all her might to have something
anything—to control.

the razor was serenity, it granted her amnesty
from the shouts of her mother and the fists of her father
and no one could rip this sanctity from her.
little girl, only six-years-old,
struggling for some semblance of control.


but, soon, this was not enough
she needed more than control, needed more than enough,
so she lost her heart in an attempt to find it,
sold it to a boy with a glimmer in his eye and a shimmer in his smile.

he took her dignity from her, but she didn’t care
she gave sex to get love
because this was just another teenage affair.
it made sense to feel at home in his arms, even—
even when he was exchanging lewd pictures with other women.

she craved intimacy, don’t we all?
so she sold her heart for a bronze piece
turned priceless into purchased
hoping he might reassemble the fragments of her tragic, broken heart.
but, this guy was just a boy, craving for your touch,
so you gave that kid your everything, hoping it wasn’t too much.

and he abused you with his lips the way daddy did with his fists.

you didn’t know any better, and how could you?
they’ve scorned the trappings of your grandeur in their vanity.
this scissor, paper, rock façade has you on your knees
making something that couldn’t be any further from love.

so, she settled for poppin’ pills and suckin’ down smokes
nicotine numbing the nothing that she feels,
trying to forget about last night when she—
shoved her fingers down her throat
or what she did to her wrists so she could cope.

how do i convince her that she’s worth it?
how can i show her my God died for her?
“i’m sorry” sounds so empty
when she’s barfing all over the floor.
truly, princess, if i could swap this skin for stone,
barter blood for brick, i’d be the castle i so long to put you in.

how can one begin to express her value in words
if she transcends the might of language itself?

i know my empty cup can’t fill her
but that won’t stop me from dribbling every droplet i have left.
all i hope, God, all i wish,
is that she learns to embrace the taste of Love’s precious, forever kiss.

like the dew that paints the morning grass,
her splendor is fresh with every new day.
as songbirds raise their melodies high,
so, too, should we raise her heart;
yeah, her worth is like the sun—for it brings up each new day.
bright and blue, and though her smile masks the turmoil she feels inside
it’s that smile and those sparkling eyes that make me feel so alive.

i’d trash every razor and kiss every scar
stand toe-to-toe with the monsters who bartered for her heart
and with clenched fists and unmatched fervor
fight tooth and nail,
fang and claw.
i’d ware my flesh down to the bone
and fight till these bones were ground to dust.
i’d die with her name on my lips,
because she is the one that has given me hope
through all of my own worthlessness.

if i could take every scar from her and make them my own,
i’d do so in a heartbeat,
because all i want, no, all i need
is for her to see there’s not just defeat.

i want her to know that when i look into her eyes,
i see more than just the scars of her past.
i want her to know that i think those scars on her legs,
those bruises on her hips, the cigarette burns on her ankles,
that they’re just beautiful
because they’re a part of her.

i want her to know she is gorgeous.
i mean, i want her to know that she is lovely.
that it’s not a matter of opinion, but the espousal of a fact.
that she can turn the pages of Teen Vogue
wishing she had a body like that,
but, God, i swear, she shouldn’t trade it for the world!

i remember sitting in a park as the moon waltzed in the sky
and she asked me to write her a song.
well, i ain’t so good at singin’, so i wrote her this poem, instead.

because, girl, i want you to know:
your beauty is like our God’s love—
it prevails, regardless of what you think or feel.