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  • by Laysa Miller
  • |
  • Apr 20, 2017
  • |

Today, we feature a poem that Laysa wrote. She thought it might be too dark. But I think I’d check out her previous post here. This provides a context, and perhaps the writer ends up surprised by the Light at the end . . .



I applied a carefully calculated amount of pressure

as I worried it along my sore and reddened skin

I welcomed the burn

Slowly, I scraped until I felt the pinch of breaking skin.


The dull blade lined with

little droplets of blood

I poured all my hate, and my hope, into this secret moment.

But no matter the depth

or length of the wound,

the shedding of my blood

could never be enough.

The relief was short-lived

The sickness within me still stirred

And it grew:

It made its home inside me, nestling

its way into the walls of my body and soul,

filling me until I thought I would burst and

cave in at the same time

I could taste its vileness in the back of my throat.

My heart raced, all the while pumping and

spreading the sickness through my veins:

GET OUT! I wanted to shout

But it spread, like it always did.

I sat there trembling

as small beads of blood formed

into little tears that

trickled down

as if my very skin were crying

No cleaner than I was before

but satiated, at least for now.

My patchwork skin bore witness

to my previous attempts of cleansing:

I stared at the scars, not really seeing them

and not really thinking

exhausted from the raging emotions of the last few minutes.

I could suddenly see specks of Light from afar

Was I imagining them?

If that Light were close enough, perhaps I would

see the fruitlessness of this ritual, of my sacrifice .

There is nothing

I can do

That Light was never meant

for me.

All People. All of Jesus.
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