A wilted rose,
Shattered mirror
And fragments of a face I knew.
Lost, dying, breathless—
Disintegrating.
In the darkness I hear the demon
Knocking behind the vaulted door.
Only in the dark, only in the
Suffocating walls of isolated thought—
Those which never see the light—
She knocks.
I lock the door, but tuck the key
In the pocket of my jeans
That have seen too many days in the sun.
If only it would fall through the strips,
The shredded holes that grow larger
Every time I trip.
Something about that key.
I reach back for it, rub my dirt-stained
Fingers over its smooth golden face,
And I remember:
It holds the power of the vault,
The secret place;
The one with monsters
And faded dreams.
A shadow always in front
No matter where the sun may stand.
I pull it out, fit it gently
Into the lock and twist until
The pain grips the center of my heart.
It opens again and the crescendo begins.
I see his eyes—calm then crazy wide.
I hear his voice—soft then blaring loud.
I see his body—small on equal plane,
Then it grows and unfolds like a giant
Rising up from slumber.
I close my eyes and feel
The press of liquid between my lids.
My voice sinks into the deep,
And I watch myself fall on bruised knees,
Pain shooting up my thighs and back
As they crack against the floor.
My head droops low, pulling with it
Hunched and bony shoulders.
And a whisper.
Faint, so faint.
I give up, Dad.
I slam the thick steel door as hard as
My feeble hands can thrust.
Yet, still the sounds echo within
The hidden room where
My mind escapes and often dwells.
Sounds of perfection, so perfect that
The pain looks like gratitude
And the horrifying looks like blessing.
Once I owned perfection.
Now it is lost and all that is left
Are fragments of betrayal,
Ignorance, wrath, and terror
That first wrapped themselves
In that sheep’s clothing.
Religion is the name of this demon.
And from Religion I will run
For the rest of my life.
But to Jesus
Is it what I always thought—
Too good to be true?
February 2020