Sometimes I feel guilty for praying. I can’t ask to be healed if I’m still digging open old wounds. It’s like the stitches never mattered because nothing really healed me. I’m just a sad version of who I used to be- I’m the last to laugh and the first to go home. I’m slamming fists against walls I refuse to tear down. I’m cutting my teeth on broken words again. If you knew how ugly this world was, would you choose to be a part of it ? I’m riding out the seasons with no expectation of making a home in any of them. I’m twisting like limbs from a rotting tree. I can’t get away from it, but I can try to rip through the earth with everything I’ve got. Healing is hard. It’s a choice. It’s a crutch. I’ve got to do it in order to save the piece of myself worth saving. Maybe I’ll pray about it and scream the truth until my voice shakes. I’ll remind the world that I want nothing to do with it and let everyone sew a piece of me shut. I’m here for the taking and my words are as permanent as it gets. So rewrite the parts you hate and recite the rest like a prayer -AMT ©️