'til the fire dies down
I can see where this pain was born. Right over the top of that old scar, a new cut has appeared. I pick at it and scratch it to see how tender it is. I clench my teeth, harden my jaw and turn my knuckles white. The pain itself isn't ugly, it's the memory of where that mark came from that makes me want to throw up. How far back will my thoughts allow me to go before my mind refuses entry into one of these closed doors? I forget to breathe and then make up for it with a gasping sigh. The oxygen breaks invisible ropes bound tight across my chest. Doors start flinging open. I exhale and some of the memories are carried away, but in small amounts, like sparks from a greater fire. I beg for mercy from God and plead in a way that can't ever be reproduced while singing in a church. I beg for peace that would paint a picture over the scar. Doors open onto memories as real as ever, but I see it from a new perspective that makes me a witness to all kinds of subtle destruction. These moments have changed the way I walk, speak, hear and love. I ask for an undivided heart like King David did. I know that I am poor and needy. No doubt about it. I'll keep breathing and sighing, until old fires die down to their embers and every door has been opened.