I have grown used to flatness.
I breathe in deep to absorb
the pitying stares
the careful words
hands on my forehead.
Breathe them in, push
them down flat.
Breathe in the wagging
heads, tongue clucks,
whispered judgments
merciless assumptions.
Shove them down,
beat them to submit
to my rage.
Maybe it is true I deserve
this, a life reduced
to listening, a frame that must be
carried and fed, flesh that must be seen
and touched while eyes look away,
ashamed.
I burn,
helpless even to end the indignity
of myself.
When, against my protests
they carry me up,
I hear them clawing at the roof;
their resolve torments me.
Why should they love me?
Can they not see
what I have become?
I can only close my eyes
as they lower me,
shut my mind to the gasps,
the silence descending with my shame.
The room is still.
I open my eyes, look up
into a gaze
that sees all, knows
all.
He smiles.
“You are forgiven.”
How could He know?
And knowing, how could He love?
He speaks again, but I hear only
those first words,
expanding in me like light, like a sigh.
Something hidden has begun to uncurl.
The world slows around me,
the room a blur of shouts and laughter
as I rise.
I turn, look again at His eyes,
and find them full of tears. He nods.
We both will forever know
the true moment of my freedom.
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